Dead Rooster Walking

From the country…

On Friday of last week we killed chickens. Two roosters to be exact. After months of watching the hens being heckled by these horny hooligans, we decided that Friday was the day. I obviously wasn’t looking forward to it and the thought of having to be the right hand women in the process made me groan. I would have to pin the roosters down while Mark chopped their heads off. I would not be hiding in the house this year, waiting for the deed to be done and then venturing out to do the plucking and cleaning. Nope, I would have to be an accomplice to chickenslaughter.

I went through a slew of emotions and felt slightly nervous but I wanted to prove to myself that this could and should be done. That if I was to raise these birds for meat and eggs; I should be involved in their death. Just like my Granny. When she was a child this was life, it was second nature, there were no doubts in order to eat you had to take a life. So I empowered myself with this logic and with the trust of Mark’s clever chopping ability, together we did the deed.

Was it pleasant? Uh no, but it was fast. The job was done in seconds, the roosters were dancing on the lawn headless, and the water was boiling. After a brief dunk in hot water, we plucked feathers, singed hairs, cut out innards, and had the birds dressed and in the freezer in no time.

Early last Friday morning, I threw kosh into the wind, got in touch with my heritage, and put some meat into the freezer. Just how it should be, at least for myself anyway.The foot of a Black Australorp Rooster.