Picking at chicken

There is something about picking meat off a chicken carcass that fires my imagination.

I feel connected to the frugality of my grandmothers' era. They grew up during the Depression and every morsel of food was precious. I imagine what it must have been like for them. Were they hungry? How often did they get a chicken for dinner? What did their mothers do in the kitchen? Probably the same thing I'm doing now: slipping on an apron; washing my hands; abandoning the knife to use my fingers.

Every time, I'm surprised at how much meat remains on the chicken after it's been carved at the dinner table. Last night we had roast chicken dinner; today's lunch menu featured open-faced chicken sandwiches. Tonight I am making croquettes, and there's still enough for chicken curry and a rich soup.

As I dig between the bones, searching for hidden pockets of meat, my thoughts drift towards other people who once needed this bountiful chicken: the starving Armenians my mother told me about when I didn't finish my dinner in the 1970s; the Ethiopians I bought charity albums to help in the 80s; the little girl in rural Thailand who I sponsored when I was a teenager. I wonder what happened to them?

They would have liked my chicken croquettes.