Do You Eat the Chickens?

In the most recent batch of chicks we ordered, my son suggested we include some Cornish Game Hens. When they were four months old, it was time to eat them. They were already double the size of the other hens - pure-bred eating machines. They sat at the feeders and ate without stopping. And grew and grew!

It was an experience to break their necks. I used the "hold-the-hen-upside-down-and-step-on-the-head-to-snap-the-neck" method. Then the bird is slipped into a large pot of boiling water, which loosens the feathers. After plucking, they are slit open just enough for the cook to reach in and grab everything out from the inside. The innards came out quite easily for three of the hens; all the significant organs emerged encased in a membrane. In one case, though, the membrane broke, and we had to be careful to get the intestines out without any spillage. Barring some global cataclysm, this is an experience I prefer not to repeat.

Natural Culling

After four years on the farm, I have yet to cull the hens. Sometimes, I feel as if I am running an old age or charity home, for the number of eggs hardly justifies all the hens in the coop. Once in a while, though, I go into the henhouse and find a dead chicken. When that happens, I pick her up by the feet and walk out to the farthest field beyond the orchard to toss her into the forest for the coyotes, fisher cats, or other predators. It feels a little strange to leave her, but a few words of appreciation by way of eulogy elevates the proceedings to a ritual and so completes the cycle of life and death on the farm.

Still, even after many deaths, it remains a shock to find a dead hen. Who likes having to pick up a stiff, heavy carcass, empty of breath, only to carry it from the warmth and congeniality of the henhouse to give the body to the woods? It makes me think of cultures where old people were led to the mountain to die when they were no longer able to care for themselves or would endanger the living because of their frailty. A few days later, a handful of feathers may linger in the woods but more often not a trace of the chicken remains.

The number of chickens varies with the seasons. The beginning of winter seems to bring more deaths than any other time; maybe these reputably not terribly bright creatures sense what's ahead. Chickens don't like to walk on snow or ice. And while a light bulb keeps their water from freezing, the building has neither heat nor a mechanism to artificially extend the light in the coop to get more eggs. The chickens get their natural rest; but it is cold. In December and January, the egg production goes down to two or three a day in total. With the longer February days, the number starts to rise and soon the warmer weather entices the chickens to roam about outside. Once again, their presence charms, and I turn to the McMurray Hatchery catalogue to place a new order and replenish the stock.