Yesterday it was decided that the brown hen was the chosen one. Now all that is left to do is choose the knife. Franz doesn’t want to use his beautiful Japanese ones – they’re not sharp enough, allegedly – so Petra suggests an Ikea blade. I’m not so sure, and try to recall ever seeing a diorama in an IKEA showroom of a robotic arm killing a chicken in the kitchen section. Franz would like to use the axe but The Husband doth protest: he’d be the one holding the chicken. And he likes having hands.
Then Petra remembers the knife they’d just picked up on their summer holiday in Sweden. It’s a hunting-type affair; small, sharp and seems to get the votes. The Husband and Franz discuss roles, and they too are decided: The Husband volunteers the slaughter whilst Franz hugs the fowl in the throws of death.
We fetch aprons, a bowl of hot water, a blanket. It feels as though someone is going into labour, and I suppose they are; that fine line between life and death is upon us. The men appear nervous, the children are curious, the women are disbelieving (will their men go through with it?), and the chickens have no idea.
We head to the run as the sun drops low in the sky. The children, Petra and I stand watching as The Husband and Franz cross the threshold and explain, apologise and thank the birds for their generosity of life. Still the chickens have no idea. That is until the men start to run.
The chase is short-lived and Franz catches the brown one, which he wraps kindly in one of his son’s blue blankets. She is calm and warm, as Franz envelopes her in his arms. The children go off to play on the trampoline, which we neither encourage nor discourage – they know what is about to happen and have chosen to be near but not near enough. I think they are sensible, and as Franz rocks the hen gently from side-to-side (a technique used to hypnotise chickens before slaughter), I leave to join the little ones.
Not long after and as darkness falls, all is quiet. The children go indoors, and I go to see how man and beast are faring. It is done. So silently, I think, and with both men being as gentle as can be with the end of life.
The butchery takes a greater length of time, and is done with care but haste as the flesh and fluorescent light clipped to a walnut tree draw the night’s curious and greedy insects. The bowl of hot water is used to soften the chicken’s skin and open the pores, so that the feathers can be plucked easily. We keep as much of the whole bird as possible – including the chicken’s bright orange eggs that have yet to be covered by albumen and shell, the liver, and the giblets – and leave the rest for midnight’s creatures.
The next morning I get up early and go straight to the kitchen to prepare a big chicken soup. The chicken we killed was over 60 weeks old so this entitles her to the honour of being a boiler. I cut off and chop up the thick layers of fat, and throw it into a hot pan to render down to schmaltz. Papa, my grandfather, loved this Yiddishe delicacy spread onto thick slices of challah bread and – as schmaltz is fundamentally the Ashkenazi Jewish equivalent of lard, dripping or clarified butter – it makes mean roast potatoes and cracking kneidlach (soup dumplings). It takes minutes to make and I pour the liquid fat into a ceramic jar and set aside for later.
Into a large schissel of cold water go the whole chicken, the chicken eggs, lots of carrots, a parsnip, some celeriac (traditionally we use a head of celery), one large white onion, a sprig of parsley, and a few peppercorns. I bring it to the boil, skim off the grey-brown foam, and very gently simmer, almost covered, for 4 hours.
In the meantime, Aliz, the twelve-year old neighbour has returned just in time to watch me make ‘chopped liver’, another Ashkenazi Jewish staple and another way of using as much of the chicken as possible. She seems slightly horrified and I am surprised – I thought we were in rural Hungary where food like this is the norm – until she announces that she’s a ‘vegetarian’. And by this, she explains, she only eats chicken breast and sausages.
Aliz watches as I fry a finely chopped onion in a little of the schmaltz, until it’s soft and translucent. To this I add the chicken’s liver, which I have also chopped, and heat until it’s cooked all the way through. I boil a couple of eggs, which are then peeled, chopped and added to the liver and onion, along with some salt and pepper. Finally, after a quick mash with the back of a fork, the dish is ready.
The chopped liver sits on the counter for all of two minutes before The Husband, Roo, Zippy and Franz descend upon it. I have some on a slice of bread too and we agree, it’s the best chopped liver we’ve ever had. Thank you chicken.
I make the kneidlach by beating a couple of eggs with some spelt and wheat flour (traditionally we use matzo meal), a bit more schmaltz, a little liquor from the chicken soup, and a pinch of salt and pepper. I leave the sticky mixture for half an hour before rolling into balls, which are cooked in salted boiling water until they rise to the top like beige-coloured buoys. Aliz still watches, intrigued, until she is called home.
Later that night, we join our hosts in eating their first hamishe chicken soup and their first home-grown chicken. We raise our glasses to the brown hen and to each other, and agree that it’s the perfect last supper to celebrate this wonderful past week in Hungary before we leave for Vienna in the morning.