The Day the CHICKEN Was CHOSEN.
In the old house with creaky floorboards and an orchard out back, there lived a woman — my grandma — who never spoke much, yet knew everything worth knowing.
She wore the same apron almost every day — the one with faded flowers and a rip where the pocket had once held too many eggs. Her hands were strong — not from lifting weights, but from lifting life. A bucket of water, a shovel of compost, a warm loaf from the fire-stove. The kind of strength that came from doing, not declaring.
When guests were expected — the whole family — the chicken was chosen.
Not just any chicken. Someone — maybe a neighbour, maybe a helping hand — would select it with swift respect and carry it to the chopping block. Quite often, the children would witness what followed: a strange and shocking moment when the chicken, headless, would still run for a few steps before the silence took hold.
It was a bit shocking, a bit odd. But it was real. It was life. As it was then, not dramatised, not sanitised.
Then came the pot of hot water. The plucking. The ritual. Feathers gathered in a bag, dried out in the sun to fill pillows later. A curious insight into what’s inside a chicken — and often, a story. Why is the gizzard full of stones? Because it’s like a mill, helping to grind the grains the chicken eats.
The chicken in the soup would begin its slow murmur in the big pot, while somewhere in another room, the table was set and windows opened to let in the orchard breeze. But before the pot sealed its secrets, she would fish out three special pieces:
The heart — still whole, barely bigger than a walnut.
The liver — smooth and rich.
The gizzard — cleaned and tender.
She laid them on a plate. Then she turned to the grandchildren, counted heads, divided the parts into pieces that matched the number of children, and passed one piece of each to each. No explanation. No ceremony. Just the quiet expectation that they would eat. And we ate — commenting on texture or taste — and somehow, it felt SOOO special and SOO exciting.
At the time, it seemed like fun. Maybe someone told me the meaning behind back then. But years later, you understand it.
She was giving you something.
The HEART, for courage. To move through life with strength, to feel deeply, to stay connected to what matters.
The LIVER, for resilience. To process what hurts, filter what’s toxic, and still grow strong.
The GIZZARD — for guts and transformation. To take in what life gives you — bitter, strange, or rich — and find nourishment in it.
I guess it was part of an old tradition — using the whole animal, out of honour for its sacrifice.I guess our ancestors knew the nutritional value of organs without science or chemical evaluation.
As much as it was a bit like magic, ritual or symbolic act, deep down, it was care. A gesture of nourishment.An encouragement — both physical and spiritual — for the children.