The chickens in Cambodia are a bleak and disheartened bunch. Occasionally, I'll catch a ruffled hen wandering down my street in Phnom Penh, the capital city. I'm more likely though to notice a gang of graying birds scratching hopelessly through the dust on an unpaved countryside lane, coughing as they listlessly stumble through their home village. The chickens in Cambodia are heart-wrenching, balding as they lose tufts and tufts of feathers from heat and malnutrition. They cock their heads to the side and look at me, their beady eyes glaring as if I should take matters into my own hands and provide them with a nutritious snack and perhaps also a cold beverage. Their necks are red and raw, but they continue to rake the ground for a tasty morsel. I admire the courage and conviction of these chickens, their downtrodden yet somehow sustained campaign for existence.
A Khmer friend told me that this particular group of chickens was only suffering from the awkward adolescent stage that plagues us all at some point. Wider travels suggest to me that either every Cambodian chicken is a gangly teenager or they collectively suffer from the harsh conditions of eternal humidity.
On a visit to Kampong Chhnang province, my host insisted that we feast on her chicken specialty. That evening, dinner was delayed as the birds raced across the yard. Despite their underweight and gawky appearance, they remained feisty and fast. Eventually, we ate, and I realized the true meaning of free range. Not only are the chickens in Cambodia ugly and beleaguered, but they're tough, chewy, and insipid. I respect the chickens only more for this; they've found a way to escape, in large part, the vicious cleaver that hangs along the kitchen wall. Ode to the Cambodian chicken, who has fought against weather and neglect, against distasteful physicality and seasonings galore. Ode to the Cambodian chicken who survives, who fights against its oppressors even as it is consumed. Ode to the Cambodian chicken, who's plucky courage deserves to be admired.
Most people prefer pork anyway.
A Khmer friend told me that this particular group of chickens was only suffering from the awkward adolescent stage that plagues us all at some point. Wider travels suggest to me that either every Cambodian chicken is a gangly teenager or they collectively suffer from the harsh conditions of eternal humidity.
On a visit to Kampong Chhnang province, my host insisted that we feast on her chicken specialty. That evening, dinner was delayed as the birds raced across the yard. Despite their underweight and gawky appearance, they remained feisty and fast. Eventually, we ate, and I realized the true meaning of free range. Not only are the chickens in Cambodia ugly and beleaguered, but they're tough, chewy, and insipid. I respect the chickens only more for this; they've found a way to escape, in large part, the vicious cleaver that hangs along the kitchen wall. Ode to the Cambodian chicken, who has fought against weather and neglect, against distasteful physicality and seasonings galore. Ode to the Cambodian chicken who survives, who fights against its oppressors even as it is consumed. Ode to the Cambodian chicken, who's plucky courage deserves to be admired.
Most people prefer pork anyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment