Advent, with its quiet reflections and flickering candlelight, often stirs up memories – some sacred, some sentimental, and, in my case, one involving a chicken that met a rather undignified end on our kitchen floor.
It was during a Christmas service, listening to others share their treasured festive recollections, that I found myself smirking at the thought of two such birds. Neither, alas, were still with us. Their fates had long since been sealed, destined for human consumption – though, in the case of one, its final moments had been spectacularly, if inadvertently, theatrical.
The second of these unfortunate fowls belonged not to my own history but to one of the greatest films ever made: Withnail and I. If you’ve seen it, you’ll already be grinning. If you haven’t, then consider this a plea – nay, a command – to rectify that immediately.
But it is the first chicken, the one that suffered at my own hands, that still has the power to make me wince and laugh in equal measure.
Christmases in our home never featured turkey. A good chicken, plump and golden, was the more affordable choice, and my mother took pride in roasting it to perfection. One year, in an effort to be helpful (or so I convinced myself), I took it upon my small self to carry the freshly prepared bird from the kitchen counter to the dinner table.
Alas, my legs were shorter then, my reach even shorter, and my ambition far greater than my coordination. With a heroic stretch, I slid the plate towards me, only to discover, too late, the peril of handling a freshly basted and still-glossy roast.
The chicken, as if possessed by some malevolent Christmas spirit, launched itself from the platter, slipping through my grasp like a bar of soap in a bath. It somersaulted through the air, landed with an unceremonious thud, and promptly disassembled itself upon impact. Wings and drumsticks detached, the torso split, and tender meat scattered across the thick, durable kitchen carpet – because, in those days, some unfortunate soul had decided that carpets belonged in kitchens.
There was a long, frozen moment in which the horror of what I had done sank in. Then came the flurry of action – my mother flinching, my father exhaling sharply through his nose, and me, standing there, bracing for the inevitable consequences. But necessity (and the absence of a backup meal) dictated a more pragmatic approach. The chicken was gingerly retrieved, reassembled as best it could be, and meticulously inspected for carpet fibres and miscellaneous debris. Mercifully, the crispy golden skin could be peeled away, taking most of the unwanted deposits with it.
Soon, we were seated at the table, plates filled, the chaos behind us. My father, as was tradition, bowed his head to lead us in grace:
“Loving God, we give thanks for this table”
There was a pause, and in that brief moment of reverence, I made my move.
“Oh! Can I have the wishbone?”
Silence. A slow, glacial turn of my father’s head. His stare was colder than the December wind outside.
“Loving God”, he continued, his voice edged with barely restrained patience, “we give thanks for this table, and for arms that aren’t long enough to reach across it and strangle a certain little someone if I hear another peep out of him!”
Suitably chastened, I sank into my chair, wisely deciding that silence was, in this moment, the better part of valour. I chewed in quiet contemplation, humming Gaudete under my breath, while somewhere in the great beyond, a very unfortunate chicken found itself at last at peace.
Wording 