The Second Incarnation

Not in its first incarnation, as the surprise Christmas present for my brother. At first glance it looked surreal; miniature next to our snowy cabin, resembling more a huge angular scoop of mint green ice cream that he ice-fishing house that it was.

Grandpa helped us pull it onto the ice, alone from clusters of other houses that dotted the prairie-smooth lake. We augured holes, dropped our lines and while Grandpa went off to do something else, we three began hauling in fish. The concept 'beginner's luck" didn't belong in our vocabulary so we simply displayed what we thought should happen and lined up flopping fish in neat rows around us.

Across the lake we watched an old pick-up emerge from a cluster of houses. It rolled to us and an older man pointed to our fish, asked if we caught them today. We watched him travel back with the news. Hours later, when Grandpa returned, the first of these houses started their journey towards us. Next morning revealed a colorful array on the ice outside our cabin, at its hearth stood our very own Mint Green! (All we caught that day was Grandpa muttering under his breath.)

It wasn't that time, however, that I learned as much about community as the second time, after my brothers and I had given up on the idea of catching fish, after the ice-fishing house sat dormant several years and the mint green began smudging, like chocolate chips that melt around their edges.

I, at sweet-sixteen, got my Easter wish: fifty yellow chicks! Our ice-fishing house easily converted into their coop. Separated from friends, as my family had recently moved to a hobby farm, I poured my energy into these chickens. I even practiced my flute and recorder with them. They'd scatter, pell-mell, when I entered their home but after the opening strains of music, they'd encircle me, heads bobbing from side to side. I'd pretend I as performing a concert and bow, startled by the clapping of wings, white feathers scattering about me. I considered these birds other than what they were.

Then the fateful day came: we butchered all but ten, which we kept for their eggs. In front of our once Mint Green, now resigned to a chocolatey-brown, our assembly line worked; Grandpa stood at the head, chopping, while I picked up the rear, plucking: white feathers encircled me. I felt sick.

Over time, a residue developed, returning like a hang-over, each time I ate, ahem, chicken. It sat at the base of my throat and taunted, "we weren't just any chickens." And I was sure, each time my throat cleared, it sounded in distinct little clucks.

Sometime during the gestation of my second daughter, years later, this residue mysteriously disappeared. I remain in awe that I can now eat chicken without complaint through I must admit I prefer, to the real thing, Milk Chocolate Chicks with Bittersweet Eggs.