The owl committed suicide by flying unexpectedly into the net set out for something else. At the time, I bought the story because it came from our Buddhist guide, Ticky, who needed an excuse to eat it.
“I haven’t eaten owl for ten years,” he cried out, plucking its feathers while his friend gathered sticks for our feast on the pebbly Mekong beach.
Ticky tore off a piece of his cooked owl and handed it to me. My waiting mouth surrounded that first bite— not chicken, nor a morsel of juicy duck, or even heartier turkey thigh. It tasted darker, more gamey, with lots of gusto, lean and robust from its journey in the wild. But there was a flavor I couldn’t discern. Was I tasting the owl’s life in the green mountains of Laos, its capture while flying out of the jungle in search of prey?
Sitting awkwardly on beach’s pebbles, I dipped my second bite into Ticky’s joew, a sauce made from a wild hog plum that we’d seen him pull off a high tree branch in the jungle. The meat and sauce instantly danced a dark-light duo in my mouth, the deep taste of the meat lifted up by the acerbic zing of the fruit.
I looked up. Ticky shook his head: no more meat on this lean bird who spent its life hunting and watching. Every bite of it was precious — every day of its freedom too, perched on a tree, swiveling it head from side to side, out there in the wild.
Four years later, while stocking up for the pandemic ahead, I caught a memory-flash of that owl, right behind my eyes, while squeezing a supermarket chicken into a freezer bag. There was no comparison. I knew my bird was fattened with corn, fed antibiotics and unable to move in its factory-farm cubicle. It still sits, 7 months later, at the very back of our freezer, ready for the onslaught of boiling water, carrots and onions — soup for one of us, in case we’re dying from this plague. Perhaps my warm soup will save us, and we’ll be grateful. It may not surprise us with its domesticated taste. But it’s better to be safe than to fly outside, where we’ll get caught, not by a net, but by the virus that ravages the world beyond our door.
Trapped inside, I dreamed of Laos, where we dipped balls of sticky rice into the wild plum sauce that shocked our cheeks with its tannins. That night we watched a single line of women, their flashlights illuminating the dark, as they followed each other along the Mekong. They waved something smoky to chase away the evil spirits, who were making the little girl in the hut behind them sick. At least that’s what Ticky told us, just as he insisted on the owl’s suicide. Suicide or capture, I took the leap of faith that the women’s smoke would keep the evil spirits at bay. Just as I believe now that we’ll escape our homes one day, free from this plague that holds us hostage.
In fact, just this morning, I unlocked my front door and I stepped out, blinking like a mole in the sunlight. No barking dogs, nor church bells. A black ribbon hung over my neighbor’s door. But towards the end of my alley, there was life. A man walked slowly toward me, calling — hongos! mushrooms! — likely wondering if anyone would come to their door. Before I retreated into mine, I envisioned exchanging mushrooms for money with a smile and a nod, something that humans used to do, before.
Instead I backed into the safety of my kitchen and opened the window to the street. Leaning forward a touch, I stuck my nose out, like a dog, lifting it up to catch the unexpected aroma. Mushrooms. The man was close enough for me to see them, nestled in their basket, heading toward me. They were irregular, speckled with earth — wild, like the owl, who took his chances and was caught. I won’t be. Caught, that is. Because I’m oddly optimistic, almost free as a bird.
- Free As A Bird - September 22, 2021