Where are the Chickens?

We're having fufu for dinner. I found a hairy taro root that, though it's purply on the inside, tastes remarkably similar to the yams of West Africa.

Problem is, when I peeled off the hairy skin, I realized that there are no chickens wandering around underfoot in my kitchen. Nary a one.

I never thought about chickens when I bought the taro. Or when I set it on the shelf. Or when I sliced it in chunks. But when I peeled off that first piece of skin, my automatic reaction was to toss the peelings on the floor. For the imaginary birds.

Old habits die hard. Even dormant habits.