Hortensia the Butcher

Hortensia hauls two plucked chickens with fatty yellow skin out of the cooler.  Their feet are still attached which makes me feel a tiny bit queasy, though I am not prepared for what is to follow.  "My employer has asked that they be chopped up please", I instruct her.  Without hesitating, Hortensia, who is la duena of this grocery/convenience store,  grabs her big knife, set the chickens on top of the cooler, thinks better of it, and brings them to the front wooden counter upon which she had just placed a thin sheet of butcher paper.  She plops the two chickens in front of me.  The front counter is a place upon which everyone leans, touches, places things, exchanges money and gossips in front of.  It also holds many things for sale, like sweets, or trays of Hortensia's out-of-this-world homemade cake.  Now it is acting as butcher block.  "How small do you want the pieces?", she asks me, showing me samples.  "Como asi"?  Like this?   "Yeah, that looks fine", I encourage her, watching in awe as she wields that knife through flesh and bone, whacking away.  Luckily there isn't a big line-up behind me; it's still early in the morning and I had just received the call from Eric, who I am working for this week,  giving me the list of groceries for the day.  He and his wife Linda are running a Compassionate Listening workshop at Casa Isabel and he is the cook.  I was hired as his kitchen assistant/runner.  It is a long and arduous climb over several rocky paths to get to Isabel's place, perched on a mountain overlooking the pacific, especially arduous carrying heavy sacks of groceries.  We try to buy enough food for just two days at a time.  I've come to know all the store keepers by now; there are several tiny tiendas and each one is good for something but there is not one that has everything.  "Why are you buying your chicken from me"?, asks Hortensia. "Because I hear your store has the freshest and best ones," I honestly answer.  I see her smugly smile.  I inform her I am working at Casa Isabel for the week for the conference, which satisfies her curiousity and goes far in good relations between the gringa hotelier and the local store owner.

By now the whacking of Hortensia's knife has accomplished its goal but in the process has chopped up the butcher paper and all the chicken  blood is now seeping through onto the wooden counter.  I reassure myself by thinking how she must be going to disinfect or spray this afterwards but also worrisome is the fact that the germs from the wooden counter are certainly getting on the chicken.  I suppose once it's cooked it won't matter, adopting a more Mexican attitude.  Hortensia places the chicken in clear plastic bags and I ask her to please double them, as I have a long walk and more groceries to buy.  I try to push away the image of raw chicken busting through bags as I hike up the hill.  She nods and grabs more bags and ties them up.  The wet and cut-up butcher paper is still lying on the counter in front of me.  Finally the owner comes over to the front with the bags, hands them to me and sweeps up the soiled butcher paper with her bare hands, sort of scraping the blood along with it, like wiping a table then chucks it in the garbage.  . . wipes her hands on some paper towel, and bids me adios. Part of me wants to stay there to ensure she disinfects that counter.  Part of me is in shock thinking she might just leave it like that, and part of me really wants to leave.   I listen to the last part and make a mental note to never lean on or touch the front counter when I am back at Hortensias next week buying a piece of her fabulous cake.