My parents kashered their own chickens for the first few years.
Not literally their own chickens. They had their hands full with a gang of little children spinning wildly to early Uncle Moishy records in the hallway.
When my parents came to Rome on shlichus in the late 1970s, the local shochet was a Lubavitch man of Moroccan origin, who had been sent there from France at the behest of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, after Rome was left without a shochet in the early 1960s and the chief rabbi, Rav Elio Toaff, wrote the Rebbe for help.
Thus the shechita was up to my parents’ standards, but the standards of the local butcher shop differed from those our family adhered to, so the next steps took place in our home.
How I remember it:
They arrive in crates, straight from the shochet. They are whole, with the head attached and all parts intact, the innards still where they belong.
Sometimes we watch our parents through the whole long process. At other times, the bulk of the work is done in the evening hours when we are supposed to be in bed, but we sneak out to peek at the proceedings.
My parents lay out days-old newspapers in layers on the countertops in the kitchen: Il Messaggero, La Repubblica, maybe even the precious International Herald Tribune.
The chickens are removed from the crates. The big knives are brought out. It’s messy and ugly. I still remember the smell of the blood mingling with the newspaper.
My parents work side by side. My father grew up under Soviet rule, when practicing religion was difficult and even dangerous. My grandfather taught all his children how to shecht a chicken because you never knew when you might need that knowledge. And Bubbe Rochel, my father’s grandmother, took care of the cleaning and kashering.
A pallet is placed in the bathtub. There is no other place to do this, we live in a small apartment.
The chicken parts are salted and placed on the pallet to drain.
Afterward, my older sister refuses to bathe for a few days.
The liver is broiled on a grate over the stove. It smells so good.
Most of the chicken parts end up in the chest freezer.
The freezer already holds many rolls of gefilte fish, ground with a hand grinder, mixed, and frozen for later use.
On the other side, bags of bread rolls and layer upon layer of homemade cakes and cookie bars. The people who stop by to chat with my parents are really there for my mother’s brownies.
In the weeks and months ahead, there will be chicken soup and roasted chicken.
My sister will eventually take a bath.
I love this one, and I love your last sentence. You're so good!