It's my birthday, I'll kill a chicken if I want to.
Birthdays basically mean you have to kill a chicken. I was very Panamanian about getting on this task, and waited until the last minute. And no one wanted to sell me one. I sort of guilted on of my favorite crazy old ladies into selling me one. So the Sunday before my birthday I stopped by and picked it up, carrying it 30 minutes to Melania's house. It almost pecked me in the face as I tried opening one of the gates. Not cool. Melania was laughing at me as I walked in the house with this chicken, she didn't think I was really going to buy it.
We got to work right away. Melania killing the chicken (I wasn't going to do that) and I was cutting up the veggies. We made arroz con pollo. Rice cooked with small pieces of chicken and cabbage, carrots, onions, and pepper. Potato salad with beets. Fruit punch. Funfetti cake. All the essentials.
No one knew the words to happy birthday. It took about an hour to get them to finally sing to me and then they sang it more or less correctly, with only a few made up parts ie "and blow out the candles." It was incredibly sweet and I absolutely loved it!!
Excellent celebration of my quarter century!
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