Sic 'Em On A Chicken

I’ve been thinking about the fate of roosters on our little homestead lately as I have a couple of hens determined to hatch out chickies and that always means…several more roos. We have few rooster stories around here. There’s the one with me chasing Big Red in my sock feet with a newborn attached to my breast as the giant rooster tried to chase my 4 year old into the street.  There’s the one where Kent thought he would eliminate the said rooster with his bow instead of more tried and true rooster harvesting methods…(it did not go as planned). Then there is the tale of Sir Lancelot who became Sir Limpsalot after taking a serious disliking to a certain Helenator. The most gripping tale of all though comes from last fall in the dramatic final chapter of Redneck the Horrid Roo.

 

Poor Redneck started out very meek as a rescue bird from Uncle Jake’s farm. He was the low man on the totem pole both in his former life and, at first, his new life as the only rooster in our flock. The hens wouldn’t allow him past he lowest rung on the roost and he emerged every morning with a little poop on his back. His spurs began to grow though, and it wasn’t long before he took his place as leader and protector of the flock. Unfortunately, as sometimes happens when the underdog finds himself in a position of power, he became a bully. He actually killed one of my smaller hens and, in his new found audacity, began to randomly attack me, Helen, and occasionally Wyatt. The last straw came one afternoon as I was landscaping my front flower beds. I asked Wyatt to retrieve a shovel from the barn and he was gone for less than a minute when his blood curdling shriek pierced through the music on my headphones. Sprinting around the side of the house I was faced with the image of my six year old with a large flailing rooster where his head should be. I knocked the attacking rooster from my son’s head with a roar and was doubly horrified by the blood that now ran down my son’s face. I could hardly contain my rage long enough to clean Wyatt’s puncture wounds but once that job was done…I was hunting rooster. My initial weapon of choice was a broken shovel handle. It was with this that I herded the unruly rooster into the enclosed chicken run. I tried to dispatch him with well-aimed swings of my makeshift club but my hand/eye coordination is notoriously inadequate and I only succeeded in working myself into a further frenzy. My next idea was to grab a wooden crate and trap the rooster underneath it. I had more success at this but was soon stuck with the conundrum of what to do once I was seated on top of a crate full of rooster. If I leave…so will he. I finally convinced my son that it was safe to sit on the crate just long enough for me to grab a concrete block to weight the crate down. With the rooster temporarily secured under the crate, I made a quick phone call to my husband to confirm that the shotgun was indeed the proper choice for ending the battle. He called me back within a minute or two to say, “DON’T SHOOT THE ROOSTER! Ammon will take him!”

Too Late.

Now, I have a headless rooster on a hot summer day.

I know how to process a chicken. I have done it many times before. What I did not, at this moment know was where in the heck I was going to find a sharp knife. I later set aside a stash of razor sharp knives and a pair of chicken shears (a gift from my amused mother upon hearing this tale). On this particular afternoon though, I was stuck with a rather dull hunting blade, a sense of mental and physical fatigue, and a determination that I would finish what I started. I ended up processing the bird as Wyatt held up my phone with my best friend on speaker phone googling chicken butchering techniques because in the intensity of the moment, I COULD NOT recall my own knowledge on the subject.

Half the bird went in the freezer labeled: The Great Chicken Fiasco 2014. The other half was slow cooked into a delicious pot pie.

 

Post script: We have butchered one rooster since Redneck. He was a no-name hatch who we knew was destined for the freezer as he started showing aggressive tendencies very early on. I actually videotaped the process as we did it clinically and he went quickly and peacefully to the great scratching grounds in the sky. The most recent rooster dispatch came in the form of adopting out our older rooster to friends when he became too aggressive for my young children. I find great appreciation in knowing where our food comes from and most harvests have an almost spiritual aspect to them. The end of a happy life comes quickly and without fear. The death of Redneck was, I admit an act of revenge from a VERY angry Mama.

The Best Laid Plans

Today I was sympathizing with a chicken again. We were both so sure of our purpose for the day…and both so wrong. I woke with determination to avoid the guilt trap that is so often my morning. Every morning I have guilt that I did not get up early enough to make my husband breakfast or send him out the door with lunch. That guilt then transitions into the inevitable guilt over how long I spent over coffee and Facebook and the fact that, no matter what my intentions, it is ALWAYS 10 AM by the time I have little people fed, the kitchen halfway put back together and the obligatory load of laundry in the wash. Today would be different. I rose before everyone and began on Kent’s breakfast. As I tossed last night’s scraps to the chickens I noticed that my broody mama was off her nest, foraging with the rest of the flock. Curious about the state of her eggs,  I peeked under the porch which she had chosen as her maternity ward. This is when I discovered the hen with plans of her own. Summer, Joan’s sister was sitting placidly on her own nest. I had known that one of the other hens was preparing to brood because someone was feathering the nest next to Joan. I had been collecting the eggs on a daily basis though, thus hopefully thwarting the actually brooding of any additional chicks. When I saw Summer puffed around what I was pretty certain had been an empty nest last night, I wondered what she could be sitting on. So I lifted her gently and discovered…a rubber ball. A rubber ball that she had to have placed in the nest herself. Silly chicken. I chuckled and went back inside.

I made up two healthy tuna wraps for Kent and was getting them in the fridge when the troops came downstairs. Instead of the nice breakfast I had planned, the children wanted cereal. That was fine and when they were finished I tossed the remaining cereal out to the birds as well. Gideon and Helen began torturing one another and did not stop until I removed Helen to her ‘thinking spot’ (the guest bed). Kent was late in coming down the stairs, and when he did he only made it as far as the recliner. Well, I guessed he was getting his own late start but that wouldn’t stop me from fueling him with a healthy breakfast. I whipped up scrambled eggs and cinnamon empanadas and was carrying his plate from the kitchen when he bolted from the recliner into the bathroom, where he proceeded to heave over my clean porcelain toilet. He had a migraine. One of only three he’s experienced in his lifetime. Today turned out not to be a day in which the kitchen was clean and the laundry folded and the ‘to-do’ list started before 10 AM. It was a day for shushing wild hooligans while rubbing Daddy’s neck in my jammy pants and daydreaming over kitchen remodels on Pinterest. It was a day for my six year old to read to his littlest sibling to keep him calm and happy. It was a day for the children to get lots of sunshine and outside and the kitchen to stay appalling until naptime.

 

I had been so sure. I awoke with energy, conviction, and purpose…But then again, so did poor Summer. I am about as likely to blossom into the perfect helpmeet and housewife as Summer is to hatch a chick from that silly rubber ball…Ah, but we try. J