WELLFLEET — I grew up in the agricultural community of Black River, Jamaica, where my grandfather, Elmas Gustauvas Bowlin, was a prominent butcher at the local farmers’ market. The pride he took in his work, and in all he did, is something I embrace and continue to live by.
Our back yard had flourishing vegetable gardens, fruit trees, poultry for meat and eggs, pigs, goats, and cows. Besides doing garden work and caring for animals, we were also taught the skill of making charcoal — the one task that, I admit, I always tried to swivel my way out of. But that’s another story.
Chasing young roosters around the yard on Saturdays was one of my favorite things to do. It was fun, but also required for the main meal of the day, as those roosters were used to make a very popular dish known as cock soup. Not only did I have to catch the rooster, I had to slaughter and clean it of all its feathers and intestines before handing it over to the adult doing the cooking. Dat deh pot a Satideh soup a di bes (That pot of Saturday soup was the best).
When I moved to Wellfleet I didn’t imagine I would have a chance to relive that childhood experience here. Then a friend asked a favor. If she bought a few meat birds and raised them to maturity, would I show her how to butcher a chicken?
“Yah mon, mi ready,” I said without hesitating. I felt my silly childhood grin on my face as I thought, “A hope dah uman yah nah ramp wid mi tideh caah mi really miss dem sopm yah” (I hope this woman isn’t joking with me today, because I really miss doing these things).
In late spring, the birds arrived. We had thought 10 weeks would be long enough to produce a good yield, but between her summer job and mine we had no time for butchering until September. In the meantime we just kept feeding the birds. Buoy mia tell u seh dem nyam up nuff food (Oh boy, they really ate a lot of food).
The day of slaughtering came with much curiosity, anxiety, and, of course, a rush of reminiscent adrenaline for me, as I relived my early formative experience. First, we built an outdoor fire to heat a big pot of water in which to plunge the slaughtered birds. We prepared an ice bath, too, where they would go after their feathers were plucked. I set out my big, very sharp chef’s knife and showed my friend and her husband what to do next. The main objective, I told them, is to keep the skin intact, not all ripped and haggard. It’s a matter of finesse.
Afterward my friend’s husband came up with the idea of my making a pot of Jamaican-style chicken soup. Yah mon, a yah soh nice (Oh yeah, this is where the fun is), I thought. I ran home to grab some fresh thyme, green onions, allspice (which we call pimento), a Scotch bonnet pepper, and a package of Grace brand cock soup mix — a must if you want that real taste of Jamaica.
Watching a whole green Scotch bonnet pepper swirl gracefully in a beautiful pot of soup as we stirred it made my mouth water. And as it floated among dumplings, potatoes, carrots, herbs, and simmering spices, I heard my grandmother’s voice: “If you want heat, burst it. If you want flavor, nurse it.”
I knew I had done right by my Jamaican culture and upbringing when I saw this American couple going back for seconds and heard their kids asking for more dumplings. That pleasure — that splendor — of sharing my culture with this family is not to be forgotten.
