The Reign Of Terror Is Over (Bethany- You Might Want To Skip This One, Honey)

Well, it is done. Mr. Moon girded his loins this morning and went out and took care of business. I was talking to May on the phone while it was happening and I could sort of see what was going on but I sort of couldn't and Elvis crowed and I thought it was Sam, pleading for his life and I yelled, "Glen, wait!"

He looked up and said, "Too late."

And I was, I must admit, vastly relieved.

Sam was a fine-looking rooster. Absolutely.
But dammit, this is what my hens look like:

Now that ain't right. They're traumatized and not laying the way they should and that man bird was going to kill them all eventually and although it's one thing to make a pet of your chickens, it's another to be so stupid and sentimental that you can't use common sense.

So. It is done. And it was done well. Mr. Moon caught him easily without a struggle and cut his head off with one quick slash. Sam never knew what hit him and yesterday Sam spent the day in the yard, free as a...bird...eating whatever he wanted, going wherever he wanted and I'm sure he had a good night's rest and we should all have such a swift ending after such a good life. God knows he had plenty of sex.

And Mr. Moon scalded him and plucked his beautiful feathers (which I am saving for who-knows-what?) and cleaned him. And then I'm going to stew him all day and we'll have chicken and dumplings tonight. Jessie is coming out to join us and maybe Lily and Jason and Hank, too. And that's the way it should be. If you're going to eat meat, you need to know where it comes from.



I remember once my friend Liz was talking about how when we were all back-to-the-land hippies, trying to live off what we could grow in our gardens (mostly yellow squash) and soybeans we got at the Food Coop, that if we'd just had the gumption to go hunting or raise some meat, we'd probably have made it. We disdained the rednecks for hunting but they knew what they were doing.

Anyway, blah, blah, blah. We killed a chicken. Big fucking deal. People do that, you know? All over the world, people kill chickens and think nothing of it. We're so far removed from where our food comes from, both the vegetable and the animal, that it's a huge thing for us. Isn't that odd?
And look at this:


There he is, plucked and clean (my husband is amazing) and he looks sort of skinny, doesn't he? Well, that's what a real yard chicken looks like. He's never been pumped up on hormones and force fed and not allowed to move around. Thus- a not-very-fat bird. Think about that for awhile- how the chicken we buy from the store is nice and plump for a reason. An unnatural reason.

So Mr. Moon has done his part and now I'll do mine. I'm going to ease him into a pan with water and garlic and onions and herbs and stew him slowly all day long and when the meat is falling off the bone, I'll add celery and carrots and onions. Then I'll make dumpling dough and drop that into the broth. And we'll eat some and I'm thinking that this might be the best chicken I ever ate.

Rest in peace, Sam. You were a fine rooster, despite that fact that you were a Super Freak, and we will all be so grateful for the nourishment you provide.

And Elvis better watch his P's and Q's because now we know how to deal with recalcitrant roosters. The polygamous hens have a new husband, the coop has a new Cock. I hope he isn't inclined to use his cock as often.


The King is dead, long live the King.

I hope my hens' feathers grow back, I hope that Betty's head now finally and at last will heal and perhaps she can eventually rejoin her flock.

And that's what's happening in Lloyd, Florida, way out in the country on Saturday, January 23, 2010.