Home > April in Paris > Archives > 2008 > November > 06 > Entry
Ode to a Guinea Fowl
In cooking class last week, for some reason, I volunteered to butcher the guinea fowl. Fortunately, I had a cooking partner and we took turns chopping vegetables for the main course and butchering the bird. The two fowl were purchased earlier at the outdoor French market. As I unfurled the yellow paper and revealed the interior, in my hands lay the whole, featherless bird complete with large claws and the head.
My first thought was of Saturday mornings at the bakery. Sometimes the pretty birds with black and gray feathers peppered with white spots often ran and squawked outside the front of the bakery, early in the morning when the dew was still on the grass. Today the guinea chattered no more.
I thought to myself, I cannot appear to be bothered. I have to do this. As I peered at the featherless bird on the French tiled counter, my eyes kept meeting the birds’. I had flashbacks of every pet I’d had since I was a child—-even my pet hamsters, Annie FeFe I, II, and III. I pictured the guinea being jerked from its little girl’s night out date in front of the bakery—-a mean trick. And then before I could give it a name, I said out loud, “The head has got to go.”
I thought back to my grandmother, how in the world did she ring a chicken’s neck? No wonder she was so thin.
After chopping off the neck, I cut the wings and legs off at the joints. Then I ran the sharpened knife along the backbone to release the breasts and to my hidden dismay, I was ordered to leave the large claws on, in the name of authenticity. I trussed the neatly cut guinea pieces, so that they would cook evenly and put them on a beautiful French ceramic platter. I could not wait to cut the oranges.
Chopping, dicing, mincing and sautéing, the small French kitchen began to bloom with the scents of the meal to come. Positioning the authentic Le Creuset cast iron pot on top of the French stove, I spooned some fresh butter from burgundy and some olive oil from Provence into the bottom of the pan to melt. When the pan was good and hot, I started gently laying the guinea pieces, skin side down, in the pot and sprinkled in some lovely sea salt from Normandy. Then the instructor came by and tossed in the neck, organs and head…for flavor.
The guinea sizzled and cracked as it turned golden brown. Everyone in the kitchen began to softly chatter about the warm and enticing fragrance, now in full bloom. I tossed in the garlic, black peppercorn, chunks of onion, fresh thyme sprigs and sweet orange halves. I was in my kitchen rhythm now. I loved every minute of it. As I put the lid back on the big Le Creuset pot, the lid sat open on one side. “Peculiar,” I thought, as I peered over the side.
Complete with music from The Shining, I spotted a guinea fowl claw sticking out of the pot, face up—as if it were trying to force the lid up to escape. I stopped and swallowed and pushed the guinea fowl claw back in the pot. I pictured the bird regenerating itself like a salamander and laughing inside the pot waiting for the right time escape. Holding the lid shut, as if my life depended on it, it was time to simmer the bird. Thank goodness.
As we all sat down for the entree course, the guinea fowl braised with parsnips, carrots, and onions and a variety of fresh herbs was truly a rich, French delight. The stock had thickened during simmering and had a very rich and earthy aroma. Everyone sat at their seats with exhilaration and anticipation.
“Oh, how beautiful—how really, really French,” I said as I put a strong accent on ‘really.’ I smiled and began to plate the guinea onto the perfect French plates with a drizzle of sauce and a hearty portion of vegetables, generously serving the large clawed pieces to someone other than myself.
Maybe the packages at the grocery store aren’t that bad, I reasoned in my mind. Never once when opening the sterile chicken package from the grocery store in the states did I consider giving the dead bird a name.
As we sat down to enjoy our decadent lunch, I took a bite of the fowl with the rich brown sauce. It was the most tender, delicious buttery poultry I have ever tasted. Nothing I have ever eaten in the states compared to the flavor.
I will have to hire a butcher.
Comments
By VBetts
November 6, 2008 1:22 PM | Link to this
What an experience!! I KNOW I could not have done this, no way no how. I laughed till I cried reading this and thinking about my sweet Grandma Emma and the things she did to keep us fed. Some secrets are just better left in the kitchen!! Well, at least my brother wasn’t there to chase you around the kitchen with the guinea carcass!
By S Hughes
November 6, 2008 6:00 PM | Link to this
Poor poor guinea fowl… let us pray…
Did you have to wrestle that bird first???? You know I wish I could’ve been there, cause I know you’ve had practice in the bird and snake wrestling arena.
That poor chicken wanna-be had no chance at all… no chance…..at all!
Keep giving those birds heck! I can almost taste it.
Miss you, Your cousin Scott
PS You know, if I ever embarrass you, you just let me know. :-) I cant help myself.
By Carol Moore
November 7, 2008 11:45 AM | Link to this
Hi, April It sounds like you are having the time of your life. I am enjoying every word you write. We all miss you and the Baking Company. Keep sending us articles.
By Zeb
November 9, 2008 9:03 PM | Link to this
You now have achieved “the butcher, the baker and now you need to be a candlestick maker”! Whoa…….whoa…….
By Barbara
November 12, 2008 9:19 PM | Link to this
I wanted a taste of this dish. It sounded delicious!
By JoVina Harris
November 16, 2008 6:34 AM | Link to this
April,
I was a customer at your bakery in Lufkin. I was so sad when you closed but I understood when you told of your adventures to come. Now I’m no longer sad, just extremely jealous! I have really enjoyed reading your blog and this particular story sent me back by my grandmother’s side because she was the one in my family that could go into the chicken pen and wring a neck before you could blink. I stayed with her through the whole process and there wasn’t the least of pin feathers by the time she got through. I can’t imagine what she would say about the claws being left on. (You know where they’ve walked!) She probably wouldn’t have allowed it in her kitchen. I laughed out loud when you described the lone claw sticking out of the pot and looking the bird in the eye. The first time I ate a whole cooked fish I used my napkin to cover its eyes and everyone in the restaurant (The Adolphus Hotel, Downtown Dallas) seemed to walk by our table to look at the little redneck girl eating her fish. Keep up the good work - I’m enjoying your adventures right along with you. I hope you’re keeping good notes because there will be a book in your future!
JoVina PS: Any more pictures? Maybe a Flickr account? They’re great!