What to do with an unwanted Chicken

As many of you are aware, we at The False Nine have been using seemingly gifted “Sighted” chickens to predict Austin FC matches. 

Unfortunately after this past weekend, the chickens’ ability to choose matches correctly was in question, as they’d dropped below .500 on the season (7-8 total)

In a completely unrelated happenstance to one of the chickens horribly meeting its demise earlier this week, here is a handy and time tested recipe on how to deal with a now unwanted chicken that may or may not be gifted.

This recipe has been handed down from my grandmother, and her grandmother before her dating all the way back to the old old country. Grandma Apecht was a wise old woman (or seemingly old for as long as I knew her), who knew a complete oral history of the family dating back to the old old country. 

It was large as villages go, but ultimately it was tucked away from any modern highways, cities, towns, or really much of anything that we would consider necessities that are really just comforts. Without access, or want of modern technology, their understanding of the world was primitive and they attempted to understand what was going on around them through a variety of means.  But the most honored part of the village was…their chickens. This village became locally renowned for their chicken raising and were widely sought after by neighboring areas in barter for other goods and services. It is told that the church was built thanks to one conspicuously expensive chicken as trade to a craftsmen. Their chickens weren’t merely a source of food in the form eggs and meat, nor was it due to their feathers, which made for cheap fletching, but it was for something that was not apparent by looking at the animals. Even as I entered the village for the first time I saw the coop, a large red chicken looked at me, almost like it was on watch of every person who entered. 

These chickens, it was believed then and still believed today, had “The Sight ” which helped the villagers in myriad ways. They were believed to predict the weather as well as gauge the correct time to plant crops, allowing them to have bountiful harvests that sustained them during the cold, harsh winters of the old country. This was a time before an Almanac, or even reliable means to measure temperature, rainfall, or humidity, and any advantage in being able to know more about the future was coveted by those who wished to survive. 

When I was nine years old, my father put me on a plane as we visited his mother, the aforementioned Grandma Apecht, the matriarch not just of the village but the family at that time. It was a long journey, a long plane flight followed by a train, then a bus, a ferry, then another bus, and a canoe. My nine year old self did not appreciate or have any understanding of how my life was about to be changed by the experience. 

I spent the better part of two weeks there, not just spending time with my extended family, but also the villagers, especially their butcher, baker, and candlestick maker, all trades I got to experience for a day. Most of my time spent there was helping my grandmother set up the village for a special ceremony, of which I could never forget, as it was a formative experience in my life.

I was able to see an entire village come together for a ceremony, the importance clear by the deference given to it, even if I had no idea what it actually entailed as I was told repeatedly “You’ll understand by experiencing.” What had been a small but bustling beehive of activity was shut down the night before, the day of, and the day after as a show of respect and seriousness of the undertaking. The people all came to the center of the village, dressed immaculately in a calm seriousness. They stood together as families, nodding acknowledgement to each other as everyone filtered into the square, filling it completely as they stood shoulder to shoulder, one community. 

Then there was a procession from the town hall, the mayor, as well as some of the village elders walked down the cleared path. He held a chicken as he did, which I quickly recognized as the chicken I’d seen in the coop upon my arrival, the one I felt was judging me. In calm silence, the Mayor and elders stood in the circle, and I could tell by how my grandmother held my hand that the ceremony was set to begin.  

As the Mayor held up the previous chicken, who had incorrectly predicted the weather and caused the fields to lie fallow that year, the townsfolk (including myself, at the encouragement of my grandmother) began to jeer and yell at it. I’m not sure if the chicken understood, but it was bobbing its head in a way that made us all think it did, like it knew it had done wrong and was bobbing and nodding in admission of its failure. The Mayor then started the ritual, which I was enthralled by, and I spent the rest of my trip asking my grandmother questions about it. 

“I hope we never have to do this again and the next chicken will be correct in its prophecies forever” she would answer me, but deep down I knew she was passing this knowledge to me for a reason, and that reason is to help The False Nine correctly predict Austin FC matches. 

Please note this recipe has been adapted for modern kitchens and catered to our very passionate (and chicken loving) fan base.

Ingredients

One whole chicken

2 tsp Extra virgin olive oil

SEASONING:

2 Cups onions, minced, to elicit tears 

1 Cup of tears 

1 Tbsp Sugar, to balance the saltiness of our fan base 

1 Ghost pepper, to match the spiciness of the chicken’s predictions 

5 lemons, squeezed and zested, to represent the bitterness of the #Wolffout contingent 

5 sprigs of Thyme to represent how much time has passed since the chicken was incorrect

Instructions

Preheat oven to 550°F, the chicken must be burned to appease the spirits and to ensure “The Sight” is released from this mortal vessel and into another;

Pluck the chicken and remove the head and feet before spatchcocking it using your pent up rage from watching Austin FC passing the ball around in the patented Josh Wolff “horseshoe of sadness;”

Mix Seasoning;

Line tray with foil and baking / parchment paper. It’s very important as it’s likely a fire will start in the oven at some point and all of the chicken’s ashes must be available for the ritual to work;

Bake 90 minutes so the chicken’s physical form will resemble the way it’s soul is burning in hell. This will make the chicken’s death in vain as we will not honor its existence by eating it;

Remove from oven and immediately transfer chicken to the required ritual circle. Personally I prefer using quick spray paint MLS refs use on free kicks to mark the ritual circle;

Start the ritual with fellow Austin FC fans (this may take up to 5 minutes depending on how many verses of Cuervos you perform);

Let loose chickens and the first one to peck at the ashes is anointed as now having “The Sight” and will be used for predictions until it’s power is proven to be anything less than omnipotent. 

Please, if you must perform this ritual do it with the same seriousness and reverence the villagers performed it with, as an honor to me, my grandmother, and the old old country. 

(Legal team disclaimer: please, do not try to attempt this recipe, it will not be edible and could potentially summon spirits that cannot be contained by non-proton pack means. You have been warned).