Killing dinner

After a tour of his garden, where tomatoes were bombing from the vines and melons lolled about like a bowling alley after close, my friend Shelby showed me his chickens. He opened the door to the coop, which he built in anticipation of this first batch of chicks. "Hey babes," he cooed to them. "Hey, buddies," he said. He pointed them out, introducing them by their variety. Then we strolled over to his wood-burning oven, which he also built -- with dirt he dug from his yard -- but we weren't done talking about the chickens. "One of them turned out to be a rooster," he said. "I can't have roosters; the neighbors get upset. I was thinking we'd kill it and cook it. Maybe Saturday," he said.


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