No, we are not talking Kentucky Fried here. The only thing fried about this chicken was her nerves. This chicken was more than a little pissed off. Her roosting place of choice was in a box next to the portable gas oven, where she hid and clucked like a mad thing. No-one did effectively explain to me why she was ticked off but she crowed for a least half an hour. Any attempts to go near her could get bloody. We stayed away.
I’m not sure if she was named or not, but she was one of the many chickens roaming around the house. I would go down to the beach in the morning and there would be one in the shade under my chair, or another pecking around for the early morning sand crabs.
It wasn’t hard to feel a connection between the food we ate and its source. We were surrounding by coconuts, chickens, crabs and fish. All our staples were ordered over the phone and brought in by boat from Port Barton. But, with a little blood, sweat and tears, we could have mustered up a Robinson Crusoe style meal if we had to. It was all right there. So far, removed from KFC’s chicken in a box!