For some reason I do not understand, my mother thought it necessary that my sister know how to ring a chicken’s neck and prepare it for the frying pan.
The plan had been for my sister to chase the chicken around the yard like a madman, but our dog, Ringo, wanted in on the chase. Early the morning of the execution, the chicken was put in the laundry room at the far end of the carport and Ringo was tied up.
My sister looked reluctant as she stepped into the laundry room and the door closed behind her. I stood inside the kitchen door. Ringo was going crazy. He was snarling, growling, and pulling as hard as he could to get loose. I didn’t dare step outside. The noises that came from behind the closed door were horrible. It sounded like a major battle with all the squawking, banging and yelling.
She chased the poor little chicken, grabbed it by the neck and twisted as hard as she could to no avail. That just made the chicken mad and it squawked louder and flapped it shedding wings harder. The door opened and my sister slowly emerged, hot and sweaty. Her hair was all messed up and she looked like she had lost the battle. Feathers were still flying in the air as they floated to the floor. What a mess! That poor chicken almost “gave up the ghost” on its own. That poor thing had a sore neck for sure. Daddy put the bird out of its misery.
Though I never understood why Mama thought it was so important for my sister to know how to ring a chicken’s neck, by the time we ate fried chicken for supper, it didn’t seem to matter.
Ha ! Love it !