Okay, at the last minute I chickened (heh) out on the killing cone. I wasn’t born on a farm, haven’t actually offed one of my little feathered friends for a year and a half, and needed to work myself up to the deed again. So I figured what the hell? There’s no learning curve involved with the chopping block. Let’s save new things for when I’ve gotten back on the Mean Joel horse.
I also decided at the last minute to do Selma instead of one of the Brahmas. Yesterday I went in to feed Landlady’s chickens and pick the lucky winner, fully intending to choose a Brahma because I had a taste for roast chicken rather than stew. Then Selma started in with her trick of chasing the other hens away from the sunflower seeds and I thought, “You know what? I’ve never liked you.”
Selma is one of the original three, and my all-time least favorite living chicken. I’ve put up with her for over three years, and impulsively decided to take this opportunity to be rid of her. Somebody told me, early on, “Don’t name them. It’ll make it harder to kill them at the end.” But you know what? Not so much.
Yeah, I know – she’s one of the oldest chickens here and will probably roast up tender as shoe leather. But I can always stew her afterward if the roasting doesn’t work out.
Good job! I never kept hens past two years myself. I bought a big bag of brass bird bands in the early days, and each new flock was banded with a different number series. They were pre stamped with numbers from 100 to 1,000. I don’t think I ever used the last of them. Just had a notebook and recorded the numbers of the new flock each time. Made it easier to sort out the oldest. And no, I never named them.
When the boys were small, we made a deal that the pets and working animals (milking goats, horses, dogs…) could all be named anything they wanted, but the animals that were being raised for food would go nameless, or numbered. They did name one beef calf, but it was not a cuddly emotional thing. They were very glad to see that particular steer butchered. He was “Houdini,” as in able to get out of the fence constantly. The neighbors hated him too. 🙂
Yeah, the only chickens that get named around here are the ones who draw attention to themselves – which almost always happens in a bad way that works out very badly for the chicken.
Exceptions so far are two cock birds who demonstrated the apparently rare virtue of not being “I can’t wait to kill you” unpleasant and actually served some purpose in the flock. It turns out – at least with Rhode Island Reds – that keeping a cock bird in the flock actually does seem to calm the hens down. A small flock of RIR hens without a cock is a flock of psychos. So we had Mayor Quimby, the big officious Brahma cock who recently died of undetermined natural causes, and Principle Skinner who has done a remarkable job of keeping the Fortress of Attitude hens sane. They are/were welcome to live forever, or until I get out of the chicken business, whichever comes first.
Works that way sometimes. Sure wish I could have chickens, goats, calves and horses again. It’s been a lot of years, and I still miss them. Just can’t take care of them anymore, and that’s not going to change. sigh I can actually buy home raised eggs here at times, but no raw milk. If I could get those I’d be content.
So what’s the verdict Joel. How was/is Selma?
Tough as shoe leather. 🙂
I made a sandwich with the breast meat and the onion I’d shoved in her body cavity, gave quite a lot to the boys, then set the rest in a pot to brew up for stew.
Ever used a pressure cooker? Is there one in the neighborhood you could borrow? Faster cooking and less fuel. Or you could build a clay oven outside, wrap the bird in a thick clay crust, and roast it overnight. Yum. You do have a lovely clay oven? Or a cooking pit/trench? Hope there are dumplings on top of that stew.