The Taste of Self-Sufficiency (1)
Ben and three or four other children tagged along behind Patrick. Each carried a chicken wrapped snugly in a cloth slung over their back.
“Eek!”
“Hiiik!”
“Kyaaah hahaha!”
“What kind of wizard is this scared of chickens? Heh heh.”
The children teased Patrick every ten steps. They would casually press a chicken’s face against his arm or mimic the clucking sounds right by his ear. Each time Patrick flailed his limbs in panic, the children discovered for the first time what it felt like to land a truly satisfying hit. A true teacher sacrificing his own body for their education.
“By the way, Teacher.”
“What.”
“Will the kids’ houses really be finished today?”
“Of course.”
“You can really do it?”
“What’s so hard about it?”
“Have you ever made one before?”
“…I’ve never tried, but I’m sure I’ll be good at it once I start.”
By now Ben had Patrick pretty well figured out. He probably can’t do it. If they couldn’t build chicken coops, they’d have to let the birds sleep inside the house, and judging by Patrick’s current state, he’d probably just abandon the house altogether. Whatever. He’s an adult. He’ll figure it out. Ben cleanly abandoned any further worry.
Patrick, however, had his own reasons for being confident. I saw bamboo chicken coops at a folk village once. The memory surfaced of being dragged off by his history teacher, forced to listen to a full explanation of how the bamboo was split and woven without a single nail, complete with anecdotes from the Joseon era, before finally being released. The traditional Korean chicken coop was called a jangtae. That was exactly what Patrick intended to make.
Fortunately, a decent stand of bamboo grew near the edge of the forest by the house, so gathering materials wasn’t a problem.
“I brought some!”
“Here’s some dry bamboo!”
Once the children hauled over fallen, well-dried bamboo, Patrick took up a hand axe and split it into thin strips. The children still looked doubtful.
“Can you really make a chicken coop with this?”
“Really?”
But as Patrick began weaving the tough hemp cord around the bamboo, they squatted down to watch.
“Why aren’t you covering this part?”
“That’s the entrance. So the chickens can go in and out freely.”
“Oh, I see.”
The finished jangtae was a long oval cylinder, like a laid-down melon, with a small hole in the middle for an entrance. At a glance it resembled a cocoon—once it was actually finished, that is.
“Agh, why won’t this work?”
He had been making decent progress shaping one side when he hit a wall.
“Hey, kids. Look, look. How do I close the ends?”
“Why are you asking us?”
“……I thought maybe you’d know.”
Patrick had run into the biggest problem with oval coops: the ends refused to bend properly no matter what he tried. After hours of struggling, giving up wasn’t an option.
If I give up, what then? Sleep with the chickens? There was no way he was sharing a bed with those birds.
Twang!
“XX……”
On the Nth attempt the bamboo still refused to bend, snapping the hemp cord he had tied so tightly.
“Maybe I should just turn all four of them into soup tonight……”
It was only an empty threat. Patrick still lacked the courage to actually catch a chicken, let alone wring its neck and pluck it.
The sky was gradually darkening. Night meant the children playing in the yard would soon head home. The thought of being completely alone once they left made Patrick uneasy. He tossed aside the bamboo and cord and stepped into the yard where their laughter still rang out.
“Huh? Teacher! Did you finish already?”
“We finished ours too!”
“Look at this! We did a good job, right?”
“Bring yours over too! We can see what the chickens like better!”
What Patrick found in the yard were chicken coops shaped like Indian tipis. The children had mounded a little earth in a corner of the yard, ringed it with stones, then stacked long branches into simple shelters. They had even draped the cloth that had wrapped the chickens over the entrances. Patrick immediately realized his entire afternoon had been a waste of time.
“There aren’t any foxes or wildcats on our island, so this should be fine.”
“I-is that so?”
“Yes! Where’s yours, Teacher?”
“……”
“Don’t tell me you couldn’t make one?”
“……Want some mat-tang? I can pack some for you to take home.”
Even though most of his carefully saved sugar had been used up, it was a night without a single regret.
Three hens means I can at least get one egg tomorrow, right? Should he fry it? Scramble it? Still, it’s the first egg. I’d like to make something proper. Unfortunately, bread, rice, or sausage were still out of reach, so his dilemma deepened. What if I get my hopes up and they don’t lay anything? A brief, ominous thought crossed his mind—an unavoidable defense mechanism in a life that never went as planned.
After countless thoughts chased one another, Patrick finally drifted into a light sleep deep into the night.
Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cluck-cluck!
“What time is it for the chickens to be crowing?”
It hadn’t been long since he fell asleep. The rooster was already flapping on its perch and crowing loudly.
“It’s still night……”
Patrick rubbed his eyes blearily and peered out the window, but it was pitch black. Not even the faintest hint of dawn.
Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cluck-cluck-cluck!
The rooster, apparently unconcerned about time, kept crowing at full volume.
Thud, thud.
Patrick endured in that half-awake state until dawn finally broke. Broom in hand, he stepped into the yard and found the rooster leisurely pecking at bugs.
“Cluck? Cluck-cluck!”
It even flapped its wings threateningly, not recognizing its owner.
“That bird-brained……”
Maybe Ben knows how to catch chickens? If Ben could catch the rooster, Patrick resolved to eat it today and settle for an unfertilized egg. He headed toward the coop.
“Th-they’re here!”
Looking inside the coop, Patrick felt his heart instantly melt. Three pale white eggs. Even with a rooster that had no sense of time, the three hens had done their job properly.
It took him a long time to carry the eggs from the yard into the kitchen. He moved as carefully as if cradling a newborn, terrified they might crack. Anyone watching would have clicked their tongue.
“Hmm—”
The three eggs survived the journey intact.
“How should I eat these?”
Since they were his first eggs, he considered making a proper fried egg, but eating only fried eggs without rice felt unsatisfying. Getting rice right now is difficult given my situation…… The merchant who had bought the traffickers’ belongings had mentioned rice existed on the island, though it was expensive.
“No, still, fried eggs are the classic way……”
If he had ever cooked properly before, he would have more options. While various equally simple dishes circled in his head, his eyes fell on the seafood the village chief had given him yesterday. Several steamed shrimp and half a boiled octopus. He had meant to eat them right away but had put them off after exhausting himself building the coop.
“Should I try steamed egg?”
The image of Japanese chawanmushi—steamed egg custard loaded with shrimp and vegetables—came to mind. He didn’t have soy sauce, but he had fish sauce that could provide a similar umami. Shrimp, octopus, bamboo shoots, mushrooms…… Oh! Let’s add some fish too! High-end chawanmushi often featured luxurious ingredients. Even though he hadn’t seen meat in ages, seafood was plentiful, so he decided to treat himself.
“Well, they say you’re supposed to steam it in a double boiler……”
The problem was that while he had eaten it before, this was his first time making it. Patrick had never been particularly fond of cooking. Before getting a job he had lived with his parents, and after employment he was constantly working overtime with no time to cook at home. The only reason he had managed to feed himself so far was thanks to all the rural-living programs he had watched as background noise while eating. Without those, he would have been in real trouble.
“I don’t have a steamer anyway.”
With his meager belongings, a steamer was out of the question.
“……Steamed egg is steamed egg no matter how you do it!”
After a moment’s thought, he abandoned the double-boiler method. Direct-heat steamed egg at Korean barbecue restaurants was delicious too! He made stock with clams, tossed in all the prepared ingredients into a small pot, added a drizzle of sesame oil, and stir-fried until a rich aroma filled the air.
Nothing beats the smell of sesame oil.
The village chief had worried when Patrick bought sesame oil instead of a bag of bread from the merchant, but it had been the right choice. You could go without bread, but not without sesame oil.
He poured in the beaten eggs mixed with stock, stirred vigorously, and the moment he felt it beginning to set, he removed the pot from the heat and covered it. As a modern person with common sense, even if he couldn’t cook, he knew residual heat would finish the job.
I’m just not used to it. When I do cook, I’m actually pretty good.
Cock-a-doodle-doo, cluck-cluck!
The rooster crowed again at the worst possible moment. Taking it as a signal, Patrick lifted the lid. A beautifully golden steamed egg custard gleamed before him. Unable to resist, he scooped deep with a spoon, bringing up shrimp, fish, and bamboo shoots all at once.
“Hot!”
It was burning, but he couldn’t spit it out. Tears welled in his eyes, yet he managed to swallow. The texture wasn’t perfectly silky because he hadn’t been able to remove all the egg strings due to lack of proper tools, but the salty, umami-rich flavor of the protein was pure bliss.
This is why people live off the land!
He couldn’t wait any longer. No matter what, he had to plant the seedlings in the field today. Fueled by the happiness and satisfaction of self-sufficiency, Patrick’s enthusiasm surged.