It’s not often we get invited to a beheading event, so when friends of ours asked us if we wanted to observe the process of butchering chickens, we jumped at the chance. Wouldn’t you? Years ago, Kris and I had been interested in growing our own chickens, but we were growing so many children, it seemed a little overwhelming (to me) to add livestock into the mix. However, there was a lingering appeal to raising chickens the Joel Salatin way (https://youtu.be/TfT49gaiktg) and we recently found out that we had friends who were living the Salatin dream, albeit on a small scale. We’re both city slickers, so this was a great opportunity to find out how it’s done.

Don’t read any more of this if you don’t want to know all the gory details, which involves both blood AND guts. I’m giving you fair warning: if you’re the squeamish type, find the nearest exit. The rest of you can follow me around for the tour.

On the Day of Execution, we showed up at the appointed time wearing clothes that we wouldn’t mind getting blood spattered if it came to that. I only had one notion tucked into my brain about killing chickens and it involved a chopping block and chickens running around with their heads cut off. Silly me. Actually, I had two notions, the other one being that I didn’t intend being the one to deliver the short, sharp shock (a little Gilbert and Sullivan reference for those of you in the know).

The chickens were clucking contentedly in their little chicken tractor when we arrived. One of them was a rogue male who had accidentally been part of their chick shipment. He was a beauty, but scrawny and not destined for the dinner table.

We found out that it takes about 8 weeks to go from chick to chopping block. In that time, they had all become fat little buffers living on chicken feed, grass, water, sunshine and good animal husbandry practices.

When the scalding water got up to temperature, the moment of truth had arrived. One of these plump little hens was chosen, placed upside down in the chicken hopper, its head firmly grasped and the throat deftly cut. The whole process was very quick and humane. It took a couple minutes to allow the blood to drain out into a bucket and for the chicken to settle (the post-death convulsions are a real thing).

On to the scalding pot! Chickens come with these great little handles with which to hold them upside down. The scalding process is to loosen the feathers.

Once a wing feather can be easily plucked off without resistance (this usually takes less than a minute in the hot water), the bird can go into the de-feathering thingy, which is the slickest piece of machinery you can imagine. It’s filled with little rubber “fingers” that essentially pluck the feathers off while the chicken is bounced around and in 20-30 seconds, you have a naked bird, ready for gutting. Take a moment to appreciate the sheer genius of this labor-saving device. You can bet our friends appreciated it.

Okay, how much of this do you want to see? In for a penny, in for a pound, right? Those handles that came in so handy had served their purpose and were the first things to go. I’ve seen jars of chicken feet at the grocery store, so I know that it must be a delicacy for some people, but when we were offered some, I declined. They probably would have been good for making broth, but I don’t think I’m ready for the sight of chicken feet floating around in my pan. City slicker.

The head and tailbone are cut off and then you’ve gotta be willing to get your hands dirty and pull the guts and lungs out. The whole process took about 10 minutes from hopper to cooler. If you’re a meat eater (and I definitely am), it’s actually a good idea to know from whence it comes and how it got to your table.

Before we left, Kris took a turn at being Lord High Executioner (more Gilbert and Sullivan), so if we decide to do the thing, that’s been added to his skill set. And I’ve established that I can stand around taking photos, so we’re all set!

All in all, it was a good educational experience and my hat’s off to our friends who have decided to strengthen their connection between the farm and the table and to exercise good stewardship in the process. And not only that, they’re giving us a chicken for our table – that’s an exceedingly good gift!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

We’re making great strides (ha ha) on our hiking club adventures. I’m thinking about blogging through each hike we do so that you, dear reader, can live a life of hiking vicariously through us. You’re welcome. The challenge is to make boring stuff interesting – you can let me know if I succeed.

This time we went to Rice Lake State Park, where the hike of 2.4 miles was going to bring us through “diverse areas,” and “along the lakeshore.” This sounded promising. There were even hints of being able to see waterfowl – the elusive fauna! You may recall that last time I said we had learned a lesson about doing these mid-summer hikes early in the morning before it got too hot. I lied about that – we did not learn. In spite of fairly good intentions laced with vague goals, we didn’t arrive at the park until 1:15 p.m. – it was 80 degrees and Minnesota humid. Go ahead and groan and shake your heads. We deserve it. We did bring our water bottles with us, though.

I was going to stitch those two photos together so it would look like we were in front of the sign at the same time, but it involved technology and I wasn’t motivated enough.

We both brought knapsacks but I didn’t end up using mine, since it occurred to me that there was no reason for BOTH of us to carry one. Fortunately, this also occurred to my husband, who valiantly offered to be my beast of burden. I’m pretty sure that had we met in our high school years, he would have been the boy who offered to carry my books. I love that chivalry still exists and Kris has got the full measure of it.

Off we went, along the aforementioned lake shore, which was visible through the trees and swampy areas with cattails. We saw boxes with numbers stamped on them nailed to some of the trees. Could these be for wood duck nests?

We had seen plaques showing the different kinds of ducks we might see on the lake, one of which carried the captivating name of “bufflehead.”

I really wanted to see these fat little buffers which were supposed to bob to the surface of the water like a cork, but we were denied this experience. More’s the pity, since instead of an award winning photo of a bufflehead, my flora and fauna photo this time is one that will make you want to avert your eyes. I do beg your pardon, but a tiny butterfly feasting on a carcass of unknown nature was the only fauna that stood still long enough for me to capture it.

There were plenty of Mosquitos of Evil Intent in our vicinity, but neither of us received a single bite. And do you know why? Because this time we brought the Right Stuff. Let me pause for a moment to give an ode to DEET:

Oh, DEET, though you do not smell sweet,
Your chemicals are wondrous to behold
The blood-sucking insects which like to tease,
You vanquish with apparent ease.
I’ll never again leave your fold.

We passed a lovely bench which looked like a wonderful place to rest and think deep thoughts while looking out on the lake. However, the deepest thought I was having was to keep moving so the mosquitos wouldn’t have a fighting chance to pierce the veil of DEET on my skin.

The path was well-groomed and, most importantly, completely level. None of this torturous up and down stuff. Other than this confusing array of signs (see below),

we had no trouble following the path for the hiking club and readily found the important sign with the password on it (you have to record these in your booklet as proof that you did the hike). We have been a little disappointed in the lack of imagination in the Password Making Department of the State Parks.

Apparently, it was too much to hope for something like “The wild goose flies at dawn,” or “Buffleheads have a corking good time.” Alas.

Just when I was starting to get crabby from the heat, we came full circle and the hike was done. We now have an accumulated 5 miles toward our first reward: a little patch that says 25 Miles (20 miles to go!). Most of the hikes are 2-3 miles, but there are probably a half dozen or so that are 6+ miles, which would have seemed like a leisurely stroll 30 years ago, but now seems a little daunting to me and my knees. You may have detected by now that I am somewhat wimpy. I’m not proud of it, but there it is. Time to remember the glorious words found in Isaiah: “They who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings as eagles. They shall run and not grow weary; they shall walk and not faint.” If it were up to me, that would be on the last Hiking Club sign at every park.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

Next Hike: Nerstrand State Park

I went outside the other evening, leaving the air-conditioned comfort of my living room to take my chances with the Great Outdoors (GO). I planted myself on the front porch swing, started a Spotify playlist called “Evening Acoustic,” picked up my book (Alone by Richard Byrd) and began reading. Funny thing is though, I kept getting interrupted by the GO. First I noticed that it was getting towards sunset – the golden hour for photography. Time to get the camera! Click, click, click, click…

There, that’s gotten that out of my system, I thought. I picked up the book again. But no, now my ears picked up a conversation that interfered with my ability to concentrate on reading. It began with the susurrus of the wind moving through the tree branches. Then the cicadas, always rude party guests, started in with their whining, punctuated with perfectly timed silences. How do they all know how to start and stop at the same time? Maybe it’s just one really loud cicada?? Back to Richard Byrd and his experiences in the Antartctic. But who can resist a sunset? Byrd would have to wait while I watched the sunset and took a couple more photos.

Finally the sun was below the horizon and I could return by the glow of twilight to good old Richard Byrd. The cicadas had toddled off to bed as soon as the sun went down and had nothing more to say. Something caught my eye, a little twinkle. Fireflies! I was totally captivated by the GO Show at this point and put down the book for good. Bye, bye Byrdie. The wind had picked up and the gentle whisper was now a lively chatter. Our front yard was a field of flickering winged stars. Bats began their crazy flight patterns in search of (and hopefully finding) mosquitos. A lone burst of late fireworks went off over the horizon. One brilliant star crept up into the night sky right behind a tree, so I could only get glimpses now and again as the wind moved the branches. I knew that more of them would appear as the night deepened. As plots go, this was pretty good stuff. This kind of impressive story with well-written dialogue has been going on every day and night, but I’ve been settling for much smaller screens. Back in the day when people weren’t beset by our modern distractions, a keen observer wrote:

The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork.
Day unto day uttereth speech and night unto night sheweth knowledge.

I’d been schooled by the Master.

Eventually I went back inside, but was haunted by all that I would miss of the ongoing show.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

P.S. Full disclosure: I started this essay partly because I finally had an opportunity to use the word “susurrus!” Can you blame me?