“Ben and a few of the other kids followed, each carrying a chicken wrapped securely in cloth on their backs.
“Ebi!”
“Eek!”
“Kya-hahaha!”
“What kind of wizard are you, so scared? Heh heh heh.”
Every ten steps, the children teased Patrick—pressing the chickens’ faces against his arm, mimicking clucking sounds with their lips. Each time Patrick flailed and yelped, they learned firsthand what good feedback feels like. Truly a selfless master, sacrificing himself to teach them.
“But, Teacher.”
“What is it?”
“Will your chicken coop really be finished today?”
“Of course.”
“Do you really think you can do it?”
“What’s there I can’t do?”
“Have you ever built one before?”
“...I may not have tried, but I bet I’d do well if I did.”
By now Ben knew Patrick well enough.
‘I don’t think he can manage it.’ If he didn’t build the coop, he’d have to keep the chickens inside—and at this rate, he’d probably abandon the house altogether.
‘I don’t know. He’s an adult; he’ll figure it out.’ Ben neatly abandoned his worries.
But Patrick’s confidence had its reason.
‘I once saw a bamboo chicken coop at the folk village.’ He remembered the history teacher’s lecture: no nails, just split bamboo woven together. After listening to the whole story, he’d been dismissed.
The Jangtae coop used in the Joseon era—that was what Patrick intended to build. Luckily, a bamboo grove near the forest edge provided all the material he needed.
“We brought it!”
“Here are the dried bamboo poles!”
As each child handed him a sun-bleached stalk, Patrick split it thinly with his hatchet.
“Can we really make a coop out of this?”
“Really?”
Though still skeptical, the children settled down to watch as Patrick began weaving the bamboo with sturdy hemp cord.
“Why isn’t this side closed?”
“That’s the entrance. The chickens need to roam freely.”
“I see.”
The Jangtae looked like an elongated cylindrical cocoon, with a small opening for entry—once it was finished, of course.
“Ugh, why won’t this work?”
At first, he seemed to shape one wall easily, but sure enough, he hit a snag.
“Hey, look—how do I close this end?”
“Why are you asking us?”
‘Of course you wouldn’t know.’
Patrick faced the biggest challenge of the oval coop: closing both ends. The bamboo wouldn’t bend, and the cord kept snapping.
‘If I give up, what then? Sleep with the chickens?’
No sane person could do that.
Snap!
“Damn it...”
Even on his nth attempt, the bamboo refused to budge and snipped the cord in two.
“Maybe I should just make chicken stew with all four tonight...”
He was speaking hypothetically—he still couldn’t bring himself to slaughter them. A man who can’t even catch a chicken can’t be expected to wring its neck, pluck its feathers, and cook it.
Patrick’s frustration showed as the sky darkened. Night meant the kids playing in the yard would soon go home—and then he’d have no allies left. Anxious, he tossed aside the bamboo and cord and trudged back to the yard, where laughter still rang out.
“Oh? Teacher! We finished ours!”
“We did too!”
“Look! See how well it’s made?”
“Show me yours, Teacher! The chickens will like yours better, right?”
In the corner of the yard stood an Indian-tent–shaped coop. The children had mounded earth into a circle, lined it with stones, then stacked long branches into a sturdy pen. They’d even draped the cloth over the entrance like a door flap. Patrick realized his afternoon’s work had been pointless.
“There are no foxes or wildcats here, so this is fine.”
“R-really?”
“Yes! Teacher, where’s yours?”
“...”
“You didn’t make one?”
“...Want some sweet potatoes? To go?”
Though they’d used up most of his saved sugar, Patrick felt no regret that night.
‘Three hens—I’ll get at least one egg by morning.’
Fried egg? Scrambled?
‘But I want to cook something proper for the first egg.’
Bread or rice was still impossible to obtain, so he worried.
‘What if they don’t lay even one egg?’
A dark thought, but lifetimes of frustration had taught him defense mechanisms. After all sorts of thoughts, he finally dozed off.
Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cluck-cluck!
“What time does this rooster think it is?”
Not long after falling asleep, the rooster crowed. Groggily, Patrick rubbed his eyes and peered out the window—still pitch black, no hint of dawn.
Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cluck-cluck-cluck!
Yet the rooster, oblivious to time, crowed on.
Thump, thump.
When morning came, Patrick, broom in hand, stepped outside. The rooster was leisurely pecking bugs in the yard.
“Cluck? Cluck-cluck?”
It even flapped its wings at him as if to threaten.
“Stupid bird...”
‘I wonder if Ben knows how to catch a chicken. If he’d do it, I’d kill it tonight and eat the infertile eggs...’
“I’ve got it!”
Peering into the coop, Patrick felt relief wash over him: three pale white eggs.
Even if the rooster had no concept of time, the three hens had done their job.
He carried the eggs inside as if they were newborns, fearing they’d break. Anyone watching would have tsked.
“Hmm...”
But the eggs remained intact.
“How should I cook these?”
For a first egg, a classic fried egg seemed right—but without rice, a fried egg alone might not fill him.
‘Can’t get rice immediately...’
A fried egg was still the most traditional, though. As he pondered, his eyes landed on the seafood the chief had given him: a few steamed shrimp and half a boiled octopus. He’d planned to eat it yesterday but had postponed after exhausting himself on the coop.
“How about a steamed egg custard?”
He imagined chawanmushi—Japanese egg custard with shrimp and vegetables. He had fish sauce for seasoning.
‘I’ll add shrimp, octopus, bamboo shoots, mushrooms... oh, and fish meat!’
High-end chawanmushi often contains premium ingredients. Though meat was out of reach, seafood was abundant—time for a treat.
“You need a double boiler, but...”
He’d never made it before. Patrick wasn’t one for cooking; he grew up with his parents, then worked overtime almost daily, leaving little time to cook. Only by binge-watching rural lifestyle shows had he somehow survived.
“No steamer here, though.”
In his sparse home, a steamer was unthinkable.
‘All custards are custards!’
After brief hesitation, he abandoned the double boiler method. If restaurant-style custard could be cooked over direct heat, so could his.
He sautéed garlic, shrimp, octopus, shoots, and mushrooms in sesame oil in a small pot, and soon the nutty aroma filled the air.
‘Nothing beats sesame oil.’
The chief once worried when he bought sesame oil instead of bread, but it was the right choice. Bread could wait—sesame oil could not.
He whisked eggs, mixed in broth, added the sautéed ingredients, drizzled a bit more sesame oil, then stirred until the mixture began to set. He covered the pot and removed it from heat, knowing residual heat would finish the cooking.
‘I may not have tried, but I’d do this well if I did.’
Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cluck-cluck!
The rooster crowed again—timing be damned. Patrick took the cue and lifted the lid.
A gleaming custard of golden eggs! Scooping deep with a spoon, shrimp, fish, and bamboo shoots rose together.
“Ouch!”
Hot though it was, he couldn’t spit it out. Tears stung, but he managed to swallow. Without tools to remove chalazae, the texture wasn’t silky, but the savory, umami-rich protein moved him deeply.
‘So this is why people live off the land!’
He couldn’t let it end here. Tomorrow, no matter what, he’d plant the seedlings.
Buoyed by self-sufficiency and satisfaction, Patrick’s resolve soared.