First Date, part 3

I had enjoyed goofing around playing pool and all, but was getting hongry and tired and said as much to the three mooks.

“Well, my Mom is making fried chicken, so we could all head over there,” said God. “I’ll just have her kill another chicken.”

That sounded dokay, so we split for there. Out in front was a cart with an ox and we got into it and rumbled off down a deeply rutted path up a hill. The ride was quite slow and rough and the ox stank, but we sang whaling songs on the way and before I knew it, we had arrived at the big farmhouse. Inside, I was introduced to God’s mother and his older brother, Sten. God’s mother was a tall, dark-haired woman about 35 years old. I couldn’t tell how old God and his brother were, but they both looked to be 19 to 22 years old.

“Would you like to help me with the chickens?” asked God’s mother.

“Sure, Mrs. God,” I said.

“Call me Jen,” she said and headed out the side door from the kitchen to the yard in back of the house. We went into a fenced in chicken yard and the chickens clucked, jumped and squawked around the yard. “They’re not used to you, but they’ll settle down,” said Jen. We stood there for a while and sure enough, the chickens went back to their hunting and pecking, chicken-walking around the pen, roosting and other chicken stuff. As I watched, Jen slowly bent over and pace at a time approached a red hen in the middle of the chicken yard. She got closer upon her, then quick as a snake, reached out and in one motion, twisted the bird’s head off. The chicken then ran around in a circle, headless.

“Wow!” I said. “That’s amazing, Jen!”

“Would you like to try it?”

“Sure.” I picked out a chicken, pointed it out to her and she nodded. The bird was off to the side. I bent slowly at the waist, while visualizing the job ahead of me, the motions required rehearsing in my head. I paced slowly toward the bird, who was brown with some blue flecked feathers. It pecked the ground while circling slightly. Before long I was in reach of the bird. I paused while the bird accustomed itself to my presence then reached out and detached its head neatly, as Jen had done. It was deceptively easy.

“You’re a natural,” said Jen.

I smiled as the chicken wound itself down. I noticed that she had the first chicken in her apron. The sun was low on the horizon, throwing shadows across the barnyard. It was a most reassuring rural scene. After “my” bird plunked over quite dead, I picked it up and we went into the house.

When we got back into the house it appeared that we had caught the four guys at something. They were red-faced and quiet, shifting on their feet. Oh, well.
We played cards as Jen plucked, cleaned, cut up and fried the chickens and rolled and baked biscuits. By the time dinner hit the table I was nearly drooling with hunger like the Hound of the Basketballs or something. We all said a short prayer to God and he answered by saying, “Dig in!”