WARNING - this is a dead chicken story. Please leave now if the thought bothers you!
So an hour ago, my son hollers for me to 'Come QUICK!' I arrive on the back porch (mumbling about how this BETTER be GOOD) to find one of my 16yo twin boys cradling a chicken in his arms. She got out of the coop while our 2 boxers were out in the back yard, and well, you know what happens when dog meets chicken.
She is still alive, Bless her soul, but won't survive for long. While my son goes to get me the cleaver, I tell her how sorry I am that this happened, and thank her for her services (ya know, eggs) and wait. Finally the cleaver arrives, but no, I can't just get down to business, I have to wait for the son to go back in the house. He makes it around the vehicle and the job is done. He gets to the door and yells 'Clear, you can do it now.' I suppress a Mom giggle.
Normally when I cull chickens, it is a planned operation. I make nooses on the clothes line for the culling part, then we set the kitchen up with a large stock pot of boiling water, a plucking station, a cutting station and a wrapping station. Hazards of marrying a chef, I guess. Today it is just me, sitting on the bench outside plucking a chicken for the first time without the benefit of the dip in boiling water to loosen the feathers. I started at the legs (mainly to let the rest of the blood drip out), then worked my way up the body. I started on the wings last. At this point the body is upright and I am yanking hard on those pesky wing feathers. Yank! 'Cluck'....Yank, 'cluck'...OMG. Dead chicken Talking! So I learned that chickens' voice boxes are in their neck, just like humans.
Oh, the waters boiling...soup for dinner tonight.
So an hour ago, my son hollers for me to 'Come QUICK!' I arrive on the back porch (mumbling about how this BETTER be GOOD) to find one of my 16yo twin boys cradling a chicken in his arms. She got out of the coop while our 2 boxers were out in the back yard, and well, you know what happens when dog meets chicken.
She is still alive, Bless her soul, but won't survive for long. While my son goes to get me the cleaver, I tell her how sorry I am that this happened, and thank her for her services (ya know, eggs) and wait. Finally the cleaver arrives, but no, I can't just get down to business, I have to wait for the son to go back in the house. He makes it around the vehicle and the job is done. He gets to the door and yells 'Clear, you can do it now.' I suppress a Mom giggle.
Normally when I cull chickens, it is a planned operation. I make nooses on the clothes line for the culling part, then we set the kitchen up with a large stock pot of boiling water, a plucking station, a cutting station and a wrapping station. Hazards of marrying a chef, I guess. Today it is just me, sitting on the bench outside plucking a chicken for the first time without the benefit of the dip in boiling water to loosen the feathers. I started at the legs (mainly to let the rest of the blood drip out), then worked my way up the body. I started on the wings last. At this point the body is upright and I am yanking hard on those pesky wing feathers. Yank! 'Cluck'....Yank, 'cluck'...OMG. Dead chicken Talking! So I learned that chickens' voice boxes are in their neck, just like humans.
Oh, the waters boiling...soup for dinner tonight.
