Not For the Faint of Heart

No. Seriously. It isn't for the faint of heart. If you have heart faint, stop reading now. If you don't, it is your own fault, because I warned you.

I am torn between giving you background on all of this or just jumping in. Hmm. Well, since my heart is still racing, and there is nothing like adreneline-fueled writing, I am going to just jump in. Kinda. Tiny background first...in case you don't know. We keep chickens.

I could sit here and explain how it has come to pass that in 11 years of keeping chickens we have never had to come to this before, but that will take precious time...so let's just say that for the first time ever, we had 2, um, menopausal chickens whose very presense irked me. The fact that they haven't laid an egg in over a year, the fact that they are mean and pick on the younger chickens (yes, I understand pecking order, but still...), the fact that they will actually chase my children around the yard during free range time (ok, that part is kinda funny), well, all of these facts bother me. I was ready to take them to the petting zoo near my friend's house and huck them over the fence one night. And, until a dose of utter practicality set over me this morning, that was the plan.

The economy sucks, right? Our personal economy has sucked for 2 years, so the worldwide phenomenon is kind of old hat to us, except that we're really tired of it already. Every time I buy chicken food I consider if I get enough eggs out of the deal to make it worth it...and for the last few months, that answer is NO. Now, chickens don't generally lay in the winter, and we have some oldies who don't lay at all, and we had a chicken massacre in December thanks to the neighborhood raccoon, who may have scared the surviving hens out of doing anything for a while, so there are reasons for it. I have decided in the last few days that it is time I take matters into my own hands. That if I am unhappy with something, I need to fix it, moping just won't do. This has meant a lot of being proactive...and this morning, it spread to the chicken coop.

I was out feeding the chickens and it occurred to me. Today was the day. The 2 old birds were going today...I would put them in the car and tonight take them to the farm. But out of curiosity, I first called our babysitter's mom, who is also our across the street neighbor, and also keeps chickens...although more in a Mexican Farm way than in our Hippie Hen Haven kinda way. I asked her what she did with her non layers...and she (after ascertaining that I understood that hens lay less in winter) said that she killed them and made soup. Nice. After some discussion, she agreed to come over and show me how. I agreed to it, thinking this is the practical thing to do...I eat chicken...why not eat ours? Of course as soon as I hung up, I began to freak out. I can't kill a chicken...I can't even kill a bug! I throw the hated snails into the chicken coop so they can do my dirty work, I move spiders outside on a piece of paper or in a cup...as much of a carnivore as I am, I can't handle doing it myself. Michael of course was unavailable for advice, so I set to work in my garden, hoping I would figure it out...and maybe 10 minutes later, over came Blanca.

She explained to me that it was easy. She would help. We would hold their feet and their wings, and cut off their heads. After their blood drained we would boil water, stick them in, and pull out their feathers (do I use my Le Creuset pot for that?). Once their feathers are out, we cut them open and take out their intestines! Oh goody! Is that all? Yeah. There is no way. So I admit my reluctance and she says "ok, I'll do it for you" (in Spanish, of course). Hmm. At this point we are each holding one of the hens, and we head over to her house. I am attempting to be brave and burly, but I am cringing inside. Like it's nothing we put Max in front of PBS kids in her living room with her 9 year old, she grabs a kitchen knife, all the while holding a chicken, and heads outside. I follow her.

Her backyard transports me to a foreign country, as it always does. All dirt, fruit trees of all kinds in amazing condition (why doesn't my orange tree look like that?), clothes, non functional applicances, a chicken coop, several dogs, and a trampoline suspended in air being used as a sun or rain roof...I take it all in as she puts the dogs away. I pet Didi, the hen in my arms (although, truth be told, it might be Dodo...they're interchangeable) and give her my thanks. I tell her that I appreciate her eggs and all the nourishment they have given me and my family and friends, and that I am sorry if she feels any pain. I tell her all of these things looking into her beady chicken eyes and petting her red feathers. Blanca returns, and as easy as pie, puts Dodo (or Didi) on the ground, one foot holding the chicken feet, one foot holding the wings...lifts her head up and begins sawing away at the chicken's neck until blood begins to spurt out and eventually it is no longer attached. she tosses the head casually to the side, then continues to stand there while the chicken body writhes and spurts blood. She is wearing her regular clothes, and has not even a drop of blood on her...well, until a bit from the turning, twisting neck piece spurts onto her shoe. We have a conversation about the English idiom running around like a chicken with it's head cut off. Executioner small talk, you know. Dodo is finally done, and she steps off and grabs Didi. Repeat.

Did that really just happen? She's going to peel and take out the insides for me, she thinks my squeamishness is cute. I have told her to keep a chicken in exchange. I feel like I am imagining all of this...but I didn't. Time to order some new baby chicks and get my soup pot ready.

I pride myself on not being a stereotype. I like floating between worlds. If I had to pick my favorite self adjective it would be chameleonesque. And I don't know if that just means I have a lack of commitment. I'm enough of a farm girl to raise chickens, clean their poop, use said poop to fertilize my garden...but slaughter? Um, no thanks, I'll go to Costco and get a bag of chicken breasts- boneless, skinless, as far from the original animal as they can resemble, thanks.