Agvocacy, Heinlein, and chicken butchering

I’ve waited awhile to publish this, because I know that it reflects a pretty delicate topic. That being said, I think that it is my responsibility as an agvocate and a person to try to explain to others where I’m coming from.

Here goes: growing up on a farm I’ve always been fairly in touch with my food sources. I knew that hamburger came from cows, and that chickens are in fact, made of chicken. So, I guess compared to many I was already more involved with my food than a lot of people nowadays.

That being said, I had never knowingly eaten one of our cows. (Who knows what happened once they were shipped – surely they ALL went on to become someone’s herd bull, right? RIGHT!?!?!) Or any other animal that I had grown. I can remember scoffing at an acquaintance when she suggested that I butcher my own chickens. “I could never do that!” I thought it was horrible. She was horrible. She was heartless. She was cold. But she was right. Somewhere along the line my thinking changed. I guess I’ve got to eat some crow, or more literally chicken.

That’s right. Captain America and I butchered 20 chickens.

Based on the reactions of the two friends I have shared the experience with already I’m guessing that you’re either going to tell me that I am “as extreme as the people who climb Mt. Everest”, or stare at me slack jawed in abject horror. So, before I get started, let me share with you WHY it was important to me to butcher chickens.

A few years ago I went on a cruise with friends and the captain of our little catamaran caught a fish for dinner. I had never seen a fish killed before. Actually, I had never seen anything butchered before. It was a very eye opening experience. I said a prayer for that fish and I swore I would never again take any life for granted – fish, fowl, bug, or beast. Previously I was content to live with a nice protective layer of cellophane shielding me from the reality that there is a smidge of accuracy to the whole “meat is murder” bit, but no longer. I decided that if I was going to continue to eat meat it was my responsibility to make sure it was as ethical as possible.

Basically, if I couldn’t stomach seeing a cow turned into burger, I needed to stop eating them. If I couldn’t actually be a part of my food chain then I didn’t respect the creature that had given up its life for me. I don’t think this is right for everyone, but for me being raised around and loving animals it was a choice I had to make. I felt like I owe it to them.

That’s the number one reason that I had to do this. I love those critters, and I want them to have great lives and then suffer as little as possible. I can eat those roosters and know that they spent their days running around the yard, eating bugs, annoying the dogs, and doing rooster things without ever being locked in a tiny cage or treated cruelly (except by each other because roosters are MEAN). I know that their deaths were as swift and painless as we could make them.

That cellophane wrapper on a frozen package of chicken breasts is the best insulation from reality that I know. Thin clear plastic sanitizes the world. It keeps the messy reality at bay. Those tenders were once living, breathing creatures. Every bite of chicken wasted is a death in vain.

After watching them die and doing my part to turn them from roosters into packages of chicken, I feel like I can better appreciate their lives. My life. The world. How delicate life really is. The careful balance of things.

Yeah. I’m kind of a melodramatic hippy about it.

**Warning: Things might get a little graphic and disturbing from here on in, so if you’re the kind of reader who would respond to butchering chickens with abject horror you should probably not keep reading.**

So, what was it like? This was our process: CA creates a headless chicken and my job is to simply grab the chicken corpse and hang it up so that the fluid drains. That sounds easy enough, right? I got the easy job. The clean job. I didn’t have to murder anything so I thought I choose correctly. Ha. By the end of it I looked like an axe murderer, and CA (the actual axe murderer) wasn’t even stained. Go figure.

I had always pictured “running around like a chicken with your head cut off” to mean running in circles, maybe some zigzags; but the first time I saw a chicken with its head cut off I understood that what I pictured when I heard that colloquialism was dead wrong. Chickens don’t run with their heads cut off, not even a little bit, or at least ours didn’t. They leap four frickin’ feet in the air and flop all over the yard like bloody Koosh balls. Have you ever tried to catch an uncooperative dog? You know where you’ll run up to it and then suddenly it practically teleports 20 feet away? It’s like that, only ickier. Much ickier.

Heinlein was right, the purpose of laughter is to keep from crying. 

Faced with the horrible landscape before me I started cackling like a mad woman.  I’m pretty sure it was either that or start sobbing uncontrollably.

After the fluids drained out, we would cut one down, dunk it in 165 degree water a few times to loosen the feathers and drop it in CA’s homemade chicken plucker (that worked like a fricking champion). If you ever plan on doing this I would highly recommend looking into a Whiz Bang Chicken Plucker. It made the process much more efficient. The spinning tub with rubber fingers removes the feathers very easily. I plucked one by hand in my great-grandma's memory, and that was enough to convince me that some things are DEFINITELY glorified in the sustainable living magazines.

After that, I would remove the feet and pass it on to CA to clean it the rest of the way. He has been field dressing deer and other wild game for years, and I’m guessing that’s a transferable skill because he rocked. We discarded the organs to become dog food. As my grandpa would have said, “waste not, want not.” Also, by home butchering we were able to be sure that every usable bit got used.  That made the hippy part of my head very happy. 

The next step was to place the chickens in a circulating cold water bath until we finished cleaning them. Then we wrapped each one in butcher paper and put it in the chest freezer.

We easily could have added another step and boned the birds, but I prefer to roast them whole so that I can toss the carcasses into a crock pot and make my own broth. Plus, truthfully, I was exhausted. It was only about six hours of work, but it was pretty draining. Though, now I have enough chicken to last for about six months which is pretty cool.

So, yeah. That was my weekend. How was yours?

It would be cute if it wasn't terrifying

Last week my dad brought home a baby bird that was hopping around the yard at work’s satellite facility baiting black snakes. He couldn’t find a momma or a nest, so he brought her to my mom. This is not the first time that we have had a baby bird; in fact we actually have raised up kittens, mice, opossums, turtles, whatever needs a mother’s love for whatever reason throughout my entire life. So, dad brings mom this bird, we google her type and what to feed her. Mom and dad left and I sat for twenty minutes trying to feed her moistened high protein dog food with tweezers unsuccessfully. An hour after mom got back from lunch the little gal had a paper towel nest and was chilling out inside my mom’s shirt. I know, I know, weird. She was happy and eating though, so it worked.

As a result of her love of my mom she has warmed up to people completely. She will now fly over and land on your head demanding food whenever you walk into the room.

Spoiled much?

Barnyard Tales Chapter 4. And I don't even like chickens!

The day the chicken died. We started singing! Bye, bye… Actually, no. That day was the last day I ever pointed a gun at a living thing.

I’m a farm kid. Where I am from we have a group called 4-H. It is basically unisex boy scouts with livestock raising and death. We do lots of things like hunting, and fishing (and those things mean learning about conservation, death, and responsibility). We start fires with sticks and learn how to hold snapping turtles. We show projects and sell rabbits, and go to state fairs and milk cows.

Seriously. Milk a cow at the state fair. So cool! And you get free milk!

One fateful summer my esteemed 4-H leader had deemed us ready to hunt things other than targets. We had completed hunter safety courses with flying colors and were able to spin the small metal pig sign around and around repeatedly with our .22 rifles. Skeet shooting? Ha. We had the accuracy of the Remington clay bird team. We were champions. We were awesome. I thought I was that good. I was amazing! I was the best shot in the history of the world. Like, Annie Oakley get your freaking gun because this girl is gonna make you dance. Twice. With finger cymbals. Cha. Cha. Cha. I rocked.

It was natural that I felt awesome. After all my dad had taught me how to shoot the eyes out of my Troll dolls in our basement with a BB gun from a young age. I had shot a few raccoons and opossums out of trees on our family hunts and none of them had come back to life to claw me to death. Well, okay. One of them had, and I may or may not have a completely rational fear of opossums, but that is neither here nor there. Freaking zombie armadillos…

I looked around as my compatriots took down their rabbits and chickens with ease. The creatures stood no chance against our accuracy and firepower. The steady CRACK of gunpowder left my ears ringing and my anticipation growing. Down the line we went. One at a time. One at a time. Our training was strong on that. Safety first. Finally it got to me. My palms were moist with sweat and I aimed the .22 at a chicken 10 yards out. I gently squeezed the trigger. The gunpowder exploded, expelling the bullet through the air with lethal force. I raised my head anticipating glory, but I was wrong. So very, very wrong.

Yeah. My chicken didn’t die. It squawked in a panic and hid. Snickers went down the line. I glared at my peers and got the nod of encouragement from my mentor. I could do this. I stalked my quarry and carefully lined up and fired again. And again. Five times I shot at my chicken, yet it lived. Had I even hit it? Was it a zombie chicken? Was it an undead creature sent from the grave to mock my in front of my peers  with horrifying cries and loose feathers? As my 4-H leader took my gun and cleanly executed the bird I stared into its beady little eyes and knew that no, this bird was not sent to torment me with life. It was meant to torment me with death. Suddenly, at a tender age of nine I knew guilt like I had never felt before. I knew inflicting pain. In that moment I realized the responsibility that a weapon is, and the heavy burden of deciding life or death of another living creature. I knew without knowing that I did not want to cause undue suffering ever, ever again. To anyone or anything. Even a chicken.

I had maimed a bird and I was forever changed.

I avoid hunting and fishing now, as I have ever since. I absolutely refuse to shoot at anything other than a soda can for fear of not killing it humanely.

And I don’t even like chickens. Like they attack me, and I am somewhat convinced that they are demons. We are discussing getting chickens on the farm  for eggs and such. A small part of me is looking at it with so much trepidation. You don't even know. I am haunted by the ghosts of poultry past. I fear the chickens are going to rise up en mass and attack me like that flock of seagulls did. Or they are going to become giant hybrid chickens and chase me like the damn emu from hell did.

Seriously, there are nightmares.