"They're hardy," Silas said, leaning against his truck. "No hormones. No corn-syrup feed. They eat what the ground gives them."

Silas led her to the processing shed, a small, impeccably clean building tucked behind a grove of oaks. He reached into a deep cooling chest and pulled out a brown paper parcel, tied with kitchen twine. It was heavy and cold.

That evening, as the first snowflakes began to dance against her kitchen window, Martha began the ritual. She blanched the feet, shocked them in ice water, and tucked them into her heavy copper pot alongside carrots and onions. As the steam began to rise, filling the house with a scent that felt like a warm blanket, she realized that the hunt was half the magic. In a world of fast food and faceless ingredients, she had traveled to the source. She knew the dirt the birds had walked on, and in return, the broth would nourish her in a way no grocery store could ever manage.

"Cleaned 'em myself this morning," Silas noted. "Peeled and ready for the pot."