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By Root 676 0

nutty-tasting, with a mealy feel and a lingering woody aftertaste. But the order of chiles en nogada, the national dish of Mexico – stuffed poblano peppers, loaded with ground beef, walnuts, dried fruit, and cinnamon, served with two sauces (the colors of the nation’s flag) – had been terrible beyond words. I don’t like beef with cinnamon, particularly accompanied by a sauce. Sitting in the pulquería, swilling bucket after bucket of the mildly hallucinogenic low-rent beverage of choice for Mexicans in need of an affordable buzz, I was all too aware that underneath the roiling hellbroth of pulque even now beginning to bubble in my belly was a less-than-solid foundation of ant eggs, worms, and that horrible chiles en nogada. The ride back to my room in Izúcar de Matamoros was agony.

Eddie’s house in Tlapanala was a neat, clean one-story building – two bedrooms, living room/dining area, large kitchen – with a nice backyard and an outer kitchen and shed. When I arrived, Eddie’s wife, mother, children, and baby-sitter were sitting on a couch and in chairs, watching satellite television. In the kitchen, a table was covered with the makings of mole poblano: poblano peppers, plantains, chocolate, nuts, herbs. In the outside kitchen, the mother of my tournant, Antonio, was making tortillas, while next door, the mother of my former salad man, Gilberto, looked on. I knew I was in trouble when I stepped into Eddie’s well-tended backyard and saw a twenty-four-pound turkey still strutting around energetically. Eddie smiled and informed me that, as guest of honor, it was up to me.

‘Matelo!’ he said, handing me a machete. I’d never whacked an animal before. I was decidedly squeamish at the prospect. But the pressure was on. I was, after all, Eddie’s boss. If I looked like a punk, he’d look like a punk for working for me. I was well aware that any one of the women – and probably most of the kids – could easily step in and take out that turkey like they were brushing their teeth. I eyed him carefully. He was huge and lively. Brandishing the machete, I stepped forward and, with Eddie’s help, managed to restrain him. Eddie tilted the turkey’s head back and poured a shot of mezcal down his throat. His wife dragged the turkey over to a bench, gave his neck a turn so he was pinioned flat to the board, and let me take over.

Now, I knew that turkeys are stupid. I knew that when you chop the head off a chicken, for instance, it takes some time for it to die, that it flaps around the yard for a while, too dumb to know it’s dead. The phrase ‘running around like a headless chicken’ comes to mind. And I knew that I should expect the turkey to be no smarter than a chicken. Turkeys drown, sometimes, looking straight up into the rain, forgetting to close their mouths (kind of like Bon Jovi fans). I knew all this. I intended – as the gentle and sensitive soul I am – to dispatch this particular bird to turkey heaven as cleanly, quickly, and painlessly as possible. I would not waver, hesitate, or falter. I raised the machete over the struggling bird’s neck, absolutely resolved to whack clean through, to end his life with one firm stroke. I came down with a resounding chop, the blade going Thunk! into the wood.

The turkey’s body went insane, flapping and flailing and bouncing around! Oh my God! I thought, I’ve missed! I’ve botched it! Convinced that I’d somehow missed a major artery, cruelly and ineptly only wounding the animal, I began swinging the blade again and again in a terrified frenzy, like a novice serial killer, hacking blindly at a tiny strip of connecting skin that still held head and body together. A gout of blood erupted onto Matthew’s lens – a shot, by the way, that he missed. Spray decorated me from forehead to sandals. I looked down and saw that the contorting head was in my hand, but the body, still flapping wildly, had been taken by Eddie, who nonchalantly hung it from the shed ceiling to be plucked. I was now a killer. I sat next to my victim for a long time before pitching in and yanking feathers from the still-warm body, wondering