My phone rang at eight a.m. this morning, a Sunday morning, and I leapt to get it from my bed where I was still unashamedly and unabashedly asleep, thinking surely it must be Lily and there must be some problem with Owen.
"Hello?" I answered and instead of hearing the teary voice of my daughter, I heard a voice asking me about roosters, absolutely no apology for calling me up on a Sunday morning at the crackish of dawn.
Listen- I could muck out my chicken coop five times a day and I will still never be that country.
In real country life, eight a.m. on a Sunday morning is plenty of time to have gotten up, made a hearty breakfast and done the chores and then settled down to answer all the phone messages.
Because I had left a message on this woman's phone on Friday night. She and her husband raise chickens and they took some of Kathleen's roosters when it became all too apparent that she had more roosters than was needed and that the roosters were keeping the hens all agitato and needed to find other homes. And I had called to ask if they'd like two more.
Now. If we were REAL country people, those roosters would have made a fine chicken pot pie but we are not. We have chickens because we love them. They are our pets with benefits. But even crazy chicken people like us know that too many roosters spoils the coop. That's just a fact. We supposedly are raising these birds for eggs and roosters do not lay eggs and can keep the hens in such a state that they can't either, plus it's inevitable that the excess of roosters will begin to use their excess of testosterone for fighting each other and cock fighting is another aspect of chicken-raising we don't intend to get involved with.
So. That is why I'd made the call to these people who supposedly are breeding chickens to sell who can use the extra roosters. Although of course it could be a scam and they are simply looking for free meat.
I had wondered if after Owen was born I would lose some of my interest in my birds. It's not just a metaphor for refilling the empty nest that I have gotten so enamored of these feathered babies of mine. They amuse me, they fulfill something inside of me that I didn't know was there and they give me eggs. Mr. Moon and I have raised these chickens from little puff balls of birds and I was a bit worried that my devotion to them would flag a bit after I got a real grandson but so far, that is not so much true. I still love them and look forward to going out and feeding them some fruit and finding eggs and when this woman called about taking Lucille and Helen my heart did a little sinking thing because yes, I have raised them from babies and they are beautiful chickens but it can hardly be denied that they are roosters with their gaudy tail feathers, their thick tree-like legs and oh yes, their crowing.
"Would this afternoon be a good time to come get them?" the woman asked.
I grabbed what seemed like a temporary life raft in my sleepy disorientation and said, "Oh. No. I'm sorry but my children are coming out this afternoon. We're having a little party. That wouldn't be a good time."
"Well how about tomorrow?" she asked and I wondered if they already had the pot on the fire, the potatoes and carrots cut up and waiting, or perhaps the dumplings rolled out.
"Uh. Okay," I said. "Why don't you call me then and I'll tell you how to get here."
It's going to be hard, I think, watching those two birds go. I know it's stupid. They are just chickens, after all, and I EAT chicken. I'm going to cook chicken flautas this very afternoon. And, like I said, if I were really a country woman, I'd be cooking Helen and Lucille but I am not a real country woman, no matter how dirty my feet get, and I will be cooking anonymous chicken breasts from Publix.
But I remember when they were tiny, just big enough to peck at a piece of watermelon, and I cannot eat them. I am not quite Marie Antoinette, playing at being a shepherdess, but in reality, I'm closer to her than I am to a real country woman who can wring two birds' necks at the same time and then prepare them for Sunday dinner.
And la-di-dah. So what? I am who I am and I know I have to give these extra roosters up and cowboy up, cupcake and get on with my blessed life and I will. But it will be with a pang of sadness, I know that for sure.
And now I need to get busy around here. My kids and my grandchild are coming out today and there are beans to boil and flautas to make and tables to clean off. I would kill the fatted calf if I had one.
Well, probably not. If I had a fatted calf I would have named him something like Babycakes and how in the world can you kill something called Babycakes?
Or Helen and Lucille, for that matter.
And there you have today's sermon from the Church of The Batshit Crazy where we are faced with all sorts of conundrums and quandaries, joys and small sadnesses.
I hope you're having a lovely Sunday and that no one called you at eight a.m., awakening you from your well-deserved slumber, pulling you out of your soft cotton sheets, your puppy dog lying at your feet.
And now I must go feed the chickens. And boil the chicken.
Because I am a hypocrite and so it goes.
I'm sorry to hear you have to get rid of Helen and Lucille. Those are some good birds, and I'm sure they'll make some good chicks with the lady hens.
ReplyDeleteI'm so excited about today! I guess I need to call and figure out when to come over.
And I just have to say, no one woke me up at eight this morning, but I kind of wish they did because I just woke up and I'm behind in my studying. Gawd I'm bad. hehe
You nailed it - I don't know how country I am (for a city girl of farmer lineage). Can I kill my own dinner? I'd like to think I can, but I'm just not sure. I know I can when the animal is wild and there's no relationship except respect, but a nurturing relationship ended by pot pie? Of that I am not so sure.
ReplyDeleteI'm just hoping the chicken for the dinner is free range...
ReplyDeleteMy mother did say this, it's worse to kill them when you've raised them, because then you're killing your friends.
And my father surprised me by saying he'd never keep cows again. They're too intelligent. Sheep he has no respoect for,however.
This is why I could never REALLY live on a farm. I'd get far too attached to the animals to ever slaughter anyone. And Lord help me if any of them got sick...
ReplyDeleteSame same here.
ReplyDeleteI am sorry you have to let your chicken/roosters go. It IS sad and hard and your writing was lovely.
HoneyLuna- You are NOT bad. You are wonderful.
ReplyDeleteSee you soon!
Nola- That's it. But I nurture my garden and have no problems eating what grows there. I suppose I should just be a vegetarian as then there would no more moral issues involved.
Ms. Jo- Too bad I do not care for mutton and cannot bring myself to eat lamb.
Aunt Becky- I know. It would be ridiculous to take a chicken to the vet.
Bethany- You're sweet.
Well, as for me, I loved the lambs and the sheep. The pet ones, anyway.
ReplyDeleteAw. That's hard.
ReplyDeleteI suspect that if I have to kill my own I would be vegetarian.
ReplyDeleteWhen I had chickens I loved them to pieces, well, not literally. I didn't have a rooster because you cannot have roosters inside the city limits, but in those days I had one acre of land and plenty of blackberry bushes out in the back forties where the chickens found paradise. They had the most gorgeous "chicken palace" as the children used to call it, and I painted it just like a Russian dacha with all kind of these and those to make them happy. They even had a bell hanging by the ramp that they played with and I am sure that drove the dogs crazy.
My neighbor thought I was really crazy when I got some bails of hay to use as insulation for them in winter. I cried for days when we were ready to move and I found out that I could not take my girls with me. Best eggs I have ever had and Monet couldn't have painted them any more beautiful. Stupid as this may sound, I do know how you feel. So let's have a drink...oh, that is right, I cannot drink right now but I can make you a Parfait Amour martini and that may make you feel better.
BTW, chicken flautas with salsa, sour cream and guacamole are my favorites. I bet yours are to die for.
I really like this post. I have to eat anonymous chicken, too. Have a good gathering!
ReplyDeleteIt's just not right to call a person at 8 a.m. on a Sunday. Even about chickens.
ReplyDeleteHave a great party!
Hope y'all have a blast! (I know you will.)
ReplyDeleteOh, and I loved Helen. She was so pretty. But I get how you can't keep all the trannies.
ReplyDeleteMs. Jo- What is cuter than a lamb?
ReplyDeleteMaggie- Oh, there are plenty of harder things. As you know.
Ms. Allegra- How I would love to have a drink with you and listen to you tell me about your chickens. That would be heaven.
And yes, my flautas are wonderful. I made two kinds of avocado sauce to put on them- one a regular guac and one with sour cream. You would have been happy.
Joy- Yes. Anonymous chicken. So sad.
Michelle- That's what I was thinking! And we have a lovely gathering.
Ginger- It was fun!
Mwa- Yes. Darn those trannies in the chicken coop. Harumph.
brock brock brrroooooooCK! =:>
ReplyDeletewait, what? you're getting rid of the roosters? Who could have predicted that?
ReplyDeletePOT PIE! POT PIE! POT PIE!
I am with Magnum here; but then, we had a pet pig named Gladys and I ha dno trouble mucnhing her right down. Maybe it is different when you don't actually have to do the killing yourself, or maybe I am just cold hearted. Or maybe I was simly hungry, I don't know.
ReplyDeleteI hope you had a wonderful time with your kids and, of course, Owen.
Sorry about Helen and Lucille. I really am. Hopefully that bitch won't eat them.
ReplyDeleteI get my motherly nuturing feelings out on my 5 cats and dog. I totally get that.
Much love,
SB
Ms. Fleur- Cock-a-doodle-do!
ReplyDeleteMagnum- You come get 'em, you take 'em home, you kill and pluck and cook them, you can have them. I'm serious.
It will make me very sad but I will graciously offer my roosters to you if you yourself can prepare them for the pot.
Kori- Oh, I happily ate a pig I raised once. That was somehow different.
Ms. Bastard- I knew you'd understand.