Thanksgiving

As many of you know, the mission of Walnut Grove is to provide a venue for self-sufficiency. When Lance and I bought the farm five years ago, the original plan was to raise our own food--both vegetables and meat. The meat part never happened, as I couldn't bring myself to butcher my sweet (and productive) laying hens, especially "Henny Penny"--and I really wasn't prepared to rear a hog. At that point, Lance and I became vegetarians, opting out of the industrialized system of meat production that this country has become so fond of and which was increasingly weighing on our consciences ("out of sight" was very much "in our minds"). This spring, however, three of my most determined hens hatched out broods (see June 19 post) of what turned out to be mostly roosters. As these little cocks grew into big cocks, I knew that the time would come when "something would have to be done." Too many roosters means too many fights and too many harassed hens. Unfortunately, most people--even fellow farmers--aren't interested in foster parenting roosters. (We did find a home for two roosters--Robin and Louie (an older rooster), though). I decided to keep the old patriarch Petie and three of the young roosters: Randy (a friendly one), Loretta (our drag queen), and Goldo Jr. (truly a reincarnation of his father). The rest, I decided, were going to have to be butchered. That was that. After much research on the proper techniques of killing and cleaning a chicken, Lance and I finally did the deed over Thanksgiving weekend--the traditional time for hog killin' here in Appalachia. Knowing that it would be too ambitious to "take care of" all 10+ roosters on the first go around, though, we instead settled on two large breasted ones who were just on the cusp of adulthood. I'll spare the details of the slaughter, but I will say that the other chickens seemed oblivious to what was going on, as they pecked at their fellow coop-mates' plucked feathers. Though astonished that Lance and I actually killed one (much less two!) of my beloved chickens, Mom nevertheless roasted the two birds for supper. Lance enjoyed a drumstick--his favorite--for the first time in 2+ years, and I nibbled on a piece of the breast. And though we both felt ethically satisfied--that we truly deserved to eat the meat--we ultimately decided that we prefer being good old herbivores!

Attached are pictures from the event: Me plucking feathers, Lance dressing the bird (notice other chickens in the background), and the two birds after roasting.