I wasn’t able to write the blog this morning because we spent the whole day processing our summer birds. Abby did almost all of the work. I grabbed a chicken, she cut its throat, scalded it, dropped it in the plucker, gutted it, cleaned it, and dunked it in a tank of ice water. I came in to do a few things here or there; I organized some organs, I bagged a few birds, but I didn’t do much else. I looked after Roby and I cooked lunch. 

Jack came by, Jack and Elena and Lucia and Shilo. We all watched the chickens die and the kids play and we listened to country music and ate lunch and it was a real good rural time. It felt right and like community. More than feeling like community, it was community. 

There’s something terribly sad about the empty chicken tractor, the thing they spent almost their entire lives in. We moved it three times a day for months, filled their water and food, made sure they were alright. Now it sits empty. It’s unclear where it’ll end up until next summer. 

Chickens do not seem the most aesthetically aware of animals, which is good in instances such as this, because they are hauled from their home to a scene of nearly unimaginable horror. Blood-covered cones they’re dropped into, buckets of blood and gets, the rubber fingers of a de-feathering engine. It’s not pretty. It’s not pretty, but it is what it is. I’ve chosen to eat chicken, this is the least horrifying way to do that. 

Abby and I have taken to calling any Chicken we, or one of our friends, did not raise and kill ourselves as “torture chicken,” just so we can really drive home to ourselves the difference. Not all chicken is as bad as Tyson torture™, but a lot of it is, certainly the stuff you get in almost any restaurant that I can afford these days. 

Anyways, our fridge is full of birds, birds that had pretty good lives 50 feet from that freezer. Abby should be proud of herself for doing the hard work to feed her family. I’m just glad she isn’t 7 months pregnant this time.