More snow and more culinary experiences

It snowed all day yesterday. And the thing that Scott hoped for while he was here has finally happened. The lake is snowbound so no traffic is coming in and out- at least for a couple of days. (Scott was hoping it would provide him with an opportunity to postpone his flight home and spend a little longer with me). This morning when I left the guesthouse to come down here and use the net, the other guests were making a snowman. Then kids threw snowballs at me (and other unfortunate pedestrians) as I was coming here.

Chatted to Scott on the phone last night and he was trying to tempt me into coming home again by talking about the meals he cooked this week- most unfair, he worked out very early on in our relationship that the key to this woman's heart was through her stomach. Anyway, I hung up the phone at about 10pm thinking about having a roast, when the other guests and our host stood up and said that they were going into the village to get a roast. Well, the local equivalent anyway- usually more like a barbecue of little fish, sliced potatoes and other assorted goodies cooked on a rack over an open flame. I didn't need much persuading to go along. When we got there though, it seemed that most of their selection was frozen (my host prefers freshly slaughtered meat). But they suggested that they could provide a fresh chicken, which solved the problem. The restaurant is basically a very plain room, concrete floor and little stools and these barbecue table things (a trap of hot coals is inserted into the table which has a rack set into it).

A minute later I heard some squawking from the backyard and in walked the chef carrying a mildly complaining chicken. My host took a look at it, held it up to check the wait, and gave it his approval. Then, in less time than it normally takes me to defrost a chicken breast in the microwave, the chef walked over to one side of the room, slit the chicken's throat and drained the blood into a bowl. Then he tossed it into a tub which he filled with boiling water. Took the lot outside where he plucked it while the lady mopped the blood off the floor. Freshly plucked, he brought it back in, ran it through the flame to burn off the last bits of feather stubble, and spread it out, impaling it on a three pronged metal pole, the centre pole going through its bum, up its neck and out it's beak, while the side prongs went through the legs and feet. Meanwhile, a roaring fire was prepared in a metal tray and a spit was set up overhead. The luckless chicken was basted with oil and garlic and the man started turning it. My host had apparently been eyeing off the comb on the chicken's head, because when it appeared to be cooked just right, he plucked it off with his fingers and popped it in his mouth.

The lady brought in some little fish then, still twisting and writhing, and put them onto one of the little barbecues, where they stopped moving fairly quickly. We watched for half an hour or so as the chicken rotated and the fish grilled, then sat at the table and pulled the little fish apart with our chopsticks to get the bones out and dipped them in spices and ate them. The chicken was pronounced ready, chopped into bits, and chucked onto the barbecue as well, which we nibbled at. I must admit, I kept well away from the feet and head, but the chicken breast was very nicely done. My host took the leftovers home in a doggy back. We got back at about 12.20am.