Landlady and Ian came up yesterday, and among other things we needed to discuss what to do with the male pullets. They’re about four and a half months old now, and the cockerels are clearly marked from the hens, and they’re starting to fight.
That’s too bad for most of them because Landlady has no plans to keep more than two. In fact she announced that one should go up unto the Gods of Stir-Fry that very day.
Since I’m the only one among us who has ever slaughtered a chicken – and that only once – I got to do the honors. I sharpened my knives and cleaned my hatchet, put them in my possibles bag, and met Landlady in the chicken yard for the selection. Ian caught the lucky winner – and on the way to the block this guy made a serious try at putting Dharma’s eye out, so they really are getting aggressive – and we met at the chopping block. And now I’ve done it twice.
The stir-fry that evening was really good, and better than expected because their impromptu gardening actually produced vegetables. Landlady found green beans and two absurdly enormous turnips. In among Ian’s trees there are squash and beans, peas and unidentifiable greens, and one really sad stock of corn that’s never gonna produce ears if it lives to be a hundred. Ian’s big Hugelculture holes stuffed with wood and composting manure are holding moisture beautifully and actually supporting plants.
So that was the first meal ever served at the Gulch that was largely made from food grown at the Gulch. And today I stewed up the remaining chicken with turnip, green beans, rice and potatoes, and most of it was grown right here. Not exactly Helen and Scott Nearing, but progress of a sort. I’d pretty much given up on the idea of gardening here.
This morning landlady showed up with a dog crate filled with a gift for the Bald Ladies.
The ladies didn’t see it as so much of a gift. He’s one of the two most aggressive cockerels, and I think we ate the other one yesterday. Landlady calls him “Stripey” – he was a oddball among the Buff Brahma chicks and might be a Striped Golden Laced Wyandotte – but if it turns out he needs a name I think I’ll call him Upgrayedd.
The introductions were eventful but brief. The lead hen got as far as “Who the hell are…” and it was on. And then it was over. Only four and a half months old, but he knew all about how to handle this. I guess it helps that he’s already bigger than the hens. He slapped them down one by one, then offered to do it again in bunches and got no takers. Now things are quiet. I don’t think they’ve ever seen an actual rooster before, but it’s been about six hours as of this writing and they already seem to be relaxing to the new order. And having at least provisionally settled who’s who around here, I must say he’s not being obnoxious about it.
And with that he flopped his ass down on the sofa, put his feet on the coffee table and yelled ‘Yo, bitch! Shut up and make me a sammitch!’
Tell you what, though…when the thunderstorm rolled through this afternoon he lost all traces of machismo and wanted inside the chicken house right frickin’ now. The hens are used to it, but he’s spent almost all the hours of his life inside the Big Doghouse. He doesn’t know what to do with this “nature” stuff.
