Scrapped

by E.C. Traganas

“Go and feed the hens,” my Thea Popi bids, “and fetch me a couple of eggs.” There is a faint lazy clucking in the chicken coop across the stone walkway. The late morning sun is burning overhead. Suffocating warmth envelops me like a brick oven. I watch where I tread. The ancient pavers are well-worn and slippery; the angle is steep. One misstep and I am sliding down a perilous slope towards the village square.

With plastic tote in hand, I maneuver the jagged crevices dotted with wild oregano and chamomile, and slowly gain a secure toehold. I peer inside the screen door pecked through with gaping holes. It is dark within, dank and musty, strewn with rancid hay, pocked with green and whitish droppings. The door swings open, squeaking on its rusty hinges, and the chickens squawk and run up to greet me: Tsouloufati hens—the sturdy and reliable breed of this remote mountainous part of Greece—brown and cream-colored with bright vermilion crests. 

One of them, a youngling Thea Popi recently purchased at a good price from a traveling poultry salesman, is bewildered by my towering presence. I coo encouragingly, but she is a wild one, with a needle-sharp beak that starts to poke at my bare sandaled feet like a sewing-machine in lock-stitch. Pwa-a pwa-a, pwa-a-a, I cluck softly to gain her trust, rummage through the feed bag and place a succulent watermelon rind before her tiny narrow head to distract her. 

I pull out stale crusts of sour bread sopped in goat’s milk and the older hens come running. Chunks of tomato cores, wormy peach shavings, wilted sorrel leaves, almond skins, leftover pasta, and sundry delectable treats tumble out of the bag, and soon the ladies are joyfully preoccupied. I reach inside the shelf moist with budding life and quickly, gingerly, snatch a handful of warm alabaster eggs, glistening, firm to the touch. One of the older birds flies up at me screeching, her filmy eyes shot with indignation, and out I rush, crumpled bag safely in hand, squeaky door securely slammed shut. 

“Well?” my aunt grins impishly, exposing her good gold tooth glinting like a miniature chicken beak. There’s work to do, I hear her voice egging me on. I take the wicker-lined amphora and basket, amble to the perivóli to fetch some ripened tomatoes for supper, then climb the half mile ascent to the village spring fountain tucked on the hilltop ledge, dawdling along the way to pet Old Marco the aging donkey pegged down to pasture.

By the time I return drenched in perspiration, the sun is well past the meridian, chicken feathers are littering Thea Popi’s courtyard, the stockpot is bubbling on the kerosene burner, and my aunt is ladling savory avgolémono egg-lemon soup into chipped crockery bowls. A loaf of sourdough bread is nestled in a napkin-lined basket; cool spring water is poured into glass tumblers. 

“Kalí oréxi,” Thea Popi says tucking into a plateful of what looks like a pair of pulsing globes swimming in olive oil. What of it? her eyes seem to say locking with mine in silent challenge. 

“Bon appetit,” I reply. I know my place, just a city girl spending the drowsy summer months abroad, trying to earn her keep. My aunt breaks open one of the boiled ovaries, and I know of one old bird who has seen better days.