The Slaughter

It has now been 5 days since I killed my first chicken, and I haven't yet blogged about it in part because I have been busy, in part because I was processing the event, and in part because I've been unsure what to make public and hedging bets about who might be squeamish to read. But at the encouragement of a vegetarian friend, I've decided to include a more detailed account (which means this is inevitably a longer post...be patient O Children of Twitter).

So...my disclaimer is here: this post is more graphic, and will include some photos of a chicken dying, and me with a knife....

If you do choose not to read or take a peek, I simply ask that you ask yourself one question: Why not?

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As mentioned in an earlier post, Daniel and I had the opportunity to participate in slaughtering and preparing two roosters for food.

We had a great teacher who was patient and kind in all he taught us at the farm.

The first step was actually to cage the chickens the night before so that the crop was clean (the first stop on the digestive tract for chickens).

We then hung the chickens upside down by their feet from a tree (they grow amazingly still while in this position) to kill them. Paul explained how he goes about slaughtering the chicken. To minimize pain, he first piths the bird (basically scrambles the brain so that it is no longer able to process pain). You do this by sticking the knife through the roof of the mouth into the brain and wiggle...

Then you make a cut in the throat so that the chicken bleeds out; it will move but it is reflex at this point. There's actually a telling way to know when the chicken is dead. At first, it flaps it wings together in tandem, and then starts to flap one at a time alternately during the last throws of death. We stood there watching the chicken lose its blood and then plucked one by hand (to cook with the skin) and skinned the other before gutting both.

  

I was curious how I would feel throughout the entire process, especially given my previously stated phobia. Interestingly, I had an experience similar to my experience of reading Michael Pollan's account of slaughtering chickens. As a reader, I waited with anticipation for his description of it, but at the end thought, "that was it?"

We can rationalize the question about whether to eat meat, or not, either way - that is not the question I tend to get caught up on. There are many examples of the ruthless nature animals display simply to survive, and we are no exception. But death and consuming another animal (if thoughtfully done) is very different from inflicting cruelty on these beasts. In fact, all life must consume some other form of life to exist.

Barbara Kingsolver reflects on this question and her own processing on the farm in her book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle:

"Most nonfarmers are intimate with animal life in only three categories: people, pets (i.e. junior people); and wildlife (as seen on nature shows, presumed beautiful and rare). Purposely beheading any of the above is unthinkable, for obvious reasons. No other categories present themselves at close range for consideration. So I understand why it's hard to think about harvest, a categorical act that includes cutting the heads off living lettuces, extended to crops that blink their beady eyes. On our farm, we don't especially enjoy processing our animals, but we do value it as an important ritual for ourselves and any friends adventurous to come and help, because of what we learn from it. We reconnect with the purpose for which these animals were bred. We dispense with all delusions about who put the live in livestock, and who must take it away" (p. 224).

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As I stood there wielding my fish fillet knife, I knew this rooster had happily grazed the earth, tackled plenty a hen, and run from the rooster-chasing-farm dog, Mica. It had lived a good life as far as chickens go (in fact it had lived several months longer than most do, it was at least a year old), and just as my body will one day feed other living things, today this chicken would feed mine.

A Rooster fleeing from Mica

One of the reasons I wanted to have the experience of slaughtering something I would eventually eat, and the reason I decided to post so many details about it, is our growing distance we have from our food supply. I grew up with many a friend who didn't want the food on their plate to look anything like the living creature it once was. (While this was generally a reference about meat, it's becoming more true of plants and vegetables as well. How often do we think about whether our chip was made of corn or potato? Or where the sugar in our cookie came from: corn, beet, cane?)

This farm child flourishes amidst life and death on the farm, and taught us to be less squeamish!

Rather than being more difficult to eat a chicken I had looked into the eyes of hours before, it was easier. I knew his quality of life, the method of death, and the processing that went into the preparation of the meal. And in the Quaker silent prayer before supper, I gave thanks for the life of a bird whose driveway antics of squawking, pecking and crowding would otherwise cause me abnormal heart palpitations.