Today I am a farmer. We have started slaughtering the
chickens. Not that you can’t be a farmer without killing animals (as plenty of
farmers don’t), but we’ve grown crops before. For me keeping a garden is not
the same thing as being a farmer. I deeply believe that a proper farm system
involves animals to replenish the soil, and if you have animals on a farm you
have to deal with killing. I know some people think you can have animals
humanely, but the truth is that the killing is happening one way or another,
even if you yourself are not doing it yourself. Chickens are born 50-50 roosters
and hens, and they cannot exist in a flock that way peacefully and
productively. If you buy only hens from the hatchery, the male chicks are often
thrown out like garbage, or sent as living packing material to folks like us,
who kill and eat them. And you can’t have dairy without babies (be they goats,
cows, or sheep), and a farm simply cannot sustain a whole new crop of babies
every year, if only for the same reason – they are born 50-50 male and female,
but don’t form peaceful adult groups that way. I know that living most of this
lifestyle comes pretty easily to me. It feels good, and natural, but killing an
animal was the “Big Scary Thing” I wasn’t sure I could handle. So why do my own
killing? Because I believe that I do not have the right to eat meat if I am
unwilling or unable to take a life. I’ve always been an animal lover, and
though I have been a mom for too many years to be overly concerned with poop,
and blood has never bothered me, guts aren’t exactly my favorite thing. Neither
are germs. But I did it, and so did Shawn.
We put three chickens in cat carriers the night before,
before feeding time, so that when it came down to cleaning them out their guts
would be empty, and thus less likely to cause problems. Then this morning Shawn
taught me how to sharpen a knife, and boy did I ever. A good friend had warned
me after her first experience, having thought her knives were plenty sharp… and
learning otherwise. So, wanting to make this as painless as possible for the
chickens (not to mention safe and easy for yours truly), I sharpened my knife
until I could shave my arm with it. Bloody sharp, not to be overly macabre, and
I warn you, I’m unlikely to resist the impulse.
So we hung up the kill cone on the shed door, got a bucket to
catch the blood, and trekked down to the chicken house to fetch our erstwhile contestants
for “Who Goes Into The Freezer First?”… only to find out that one of them had
pulled a Houdini, and earned himself a stay of execution. I have to wonder if
it was one of the same two roosters who went missing earlier in the season,
only to show up inside the chicken house a week later at feeding time. If I
knew for sure, I might keep him just on principle. In any case, the other two
were hauled up to the shed, and I spread a few cups of grain around on the
other side of the house, so as to distract the rest of the flock. Frankly, they
don’t need to see that.
I won’t go into the gritty details of it, but I will say
that it both seemed to take longer than I anticipated (even though each bird
was completely dead in a matter of about 30 seconds, and I would guess
unconscious in under 10), and be less violent and less messy than I feared. It
was surprisingly simple and easy, and neither animal seemed to be in any pain
at all, though we took some care to hang them upside down for a while
beforehand, so they were pretty groggy. The most surprising thing? Though it is
definitely a solemn affair to take a life, it felt… honest. This, taking the
life of my food under an open sky, and saying thank you? It is a feeling of
connection I can’t really describe, and though I try to make a practice of
being mindful and grateful about my food and the lives that end so that mine
can continue, it has never felt so effortless before. I am grateful. I am
thankful. To put it plainly, this is not like picking tomatoes or making
pickles, it’s a whole other level of connection with my food. And not to sound
trite, but it was a pretty sacred experience. That, by the way, is why there
are no pictures. I really wanted to be fully present.
We let them hang for a while, as the longer they hang, the
less blood is in the finished carcass, and the better the taste. Also, I wanted
to be very, very, sure that they were dead before they went into the scalder. We
brought a pot of hot (but not boiling) water out onto the porch and scalded
them to loosen the feathers. My research led me to understand that 145 degrees
was pretty much ideal, and that was indeed my experience. After just a couple
of minutes the leg skin could be easily pinched off, and so the birds were
removed and the birds were easily plucked on the porch. And by easily I don’t
mean quickly. Holy cow. It probably took about 15 minutes to do each bird. When
the birds were all plucked, we brought them into the kitchen.
Up until this point, we hadn’t involved the kids, though
they knew what we were doing. I really didn’t know how I was going to react,
and I didn’t think it would be a terribly good introduction to this aspect of
farming to watch mommy throw up all over the ground. Luckily I didn’t. But in
came the naked birds, and Susan and Jason snapped to attention. “What’s that
Mom… are those the chickens?” asked Susan, quite concerned. Jason ran over, “Lemmesee-lemmesee!!
OH COOL!” They looked and looked, fascinated. I was a little concerned about
Susan, who’s pretty sensitive, and not all that sure about eating meat in the
first place. It’s a hard decision for anyone to make, and I want her to
understand the reality of her choice, one way or the other. So I held the bird
up, and she got a good look at the whole shebang, bloody sliced open neck and all. She
surprised the heck out of me, to be honest, and decided that she wanted to eat
it with the rest of the family. Though she did say that the heads freaked her
out a little bit, because the eyes were partly open. I can’t really blame her
on that one.
So, I washed them in the sink, and pulled out the last
feathers. Then they went onto the cutting board, and out again came the knife.
I processed them according to instructions in
The
Small Scale Poultry Flock, which was very helpful, as there were step by
step photos as well as written instructions. If you want details as to how to
slaughter you chickens, or how I did mine, I suggest you look there, as I am
proud to say it went entirely according to plan. The first one took a little
time, but the second went quickly enough, and I’m delighted to say that both
birds were finished without rupturing their digestive tracts. Jason really
loved watching me pull out the guts.
The necks (from the skull to below the shoulders), the feet,
hearts, and livers we saved for the stock pot. The heads, neck skin (which also
contained the esophagus, crop, and windpipe), and the rest of the guts,
including the testicles and lungs, along with the feathers and blood went into
a deep hole in the vegetable garden. Nothing left the farm. They may not have
been born here, but they lived here, it was their home, and certainly not a bit
of them will be wasted or unappreciated. They will be baked, picked clean,
eaten as sandwiches, made into everything from chicken salad to chicken pie,
then their bones and what’s left will be boiled for stock, and their fat will
be rendered for cooking. When they have boiled for two days their bones will be
so soft the will be crumbly, and then that too will be buried in the garden. We
even eat the skin.
These animals, like all animals, had lives of their own, and
because they gave their lives to us so that we can live, it is our duty to
waste nothing. I can think of no greater disrespect than throwing ANYTHING in
the trash. I have said this for years, but I’ll tell you, nothing in my
experience has given me a greater respect for life… than taking it.
This is one of my very favorite times of year. Woolie
season. It’s normally the time of year that I break out my heavy sweater and
wool socks. Of course, I’ve noticed that it’s a whole lot colder up here, and
if the truth is to be told, I never put my woolies away this summer. It just
seemed that there were enough cool nights that I wanted my toes toasty. So we
as a family have discovered a problem - we simply do not own enough wool socks.
The other problem is of course that because I love to knit, I have a whole
house full of spoiled sock snobs. Even the four year old. Every year I make
socks for Christmas and birthdays, because it’s Tuesday, and just because, but
if you think kids grow out of shoes fast, you should see how depressingly fast
they can grow out of a pair of socks that took me four days to knit. 
