The wrong way to kill chickens

Graeme has always had dreams of being as self-reliant as possible, so he decided to butcher them.

There’s a saying that goes:

“When Tractor Supply gives you roosters…make tinga.”

We looked up how to do it because we kinda get the general idea (the chickens have to die before you eat them), but really, I’m from the city and have never killed anything besides that basil plant Graeme got from SaveMart.

Graeme, however, is more experienced and was ready to take on this project.

Once, he chased and tackled Molly on the sidewalk while a dozen neighbors watched. Molly is a dog. A naughty, naughty dog. Graeme has also had a lot of experience and success hunting. He is known for his tenacity, agility, and ruthlessness when killing flies. He has no limits. He has smacked Forest with the fly swatter, interrupted mealtime prayers, and broken important family mementos.

Thank you, Jesus, for this food and this day YEAH! GOT YOU, YOU SON OF A GUN! We are grateful to share it together…

So, naturally, Graeme was going to be in charge of the butchering activities. If Celia Foote can do it, he sure can too.

Turns out, anybody can.

First, we took the three naughty roosters out of the coop after having identified them through a careful process of examining their saddle feathers, colors, and feet. It also helped that they crowed tremendously. Definitely roosters.

We placed them right next to the chicken coop, in a separate cage with water, but no food, because a funny guy in NC who definitely knows what he’s doing told us in a YouTube tutorial that chickens shouldn’t have food a day before killing them. That way there’s no poop in them, because chicken nuggets are delicious, but not that kind.

The next morning, Forest told me he was going to check on the roosters. We didn’t try to spare his feelings at all; he knew exactly what Daddy was planning to make for dinner. Forest made the chicken-chicken meat connection a long time ago, when he was still bald and I took him over to have a look at his uncle’s chickens. He couldn’t talk much yet, but he pointed at the chickens and said “yum yum.”

After checking on the roosters, Forest came back in, very excited because Daddy had already killed they.

What?

Yeah! Daddy already fried they!

But the hens are okay?

Yeah, the hens are walking around, but the roosters are all lying down.

Aw, crapamole. The last time he said something was lying down was when his goldfish named Red took a forever nap.

He ran back outside and it took me a minute to catch up with him. As I approached the cage, I let out an involuntary shriek as Forest casually picked up a fluffy, gray, stiff rooster.

AHH! DON’T TOUCH THEY!

Instead of teaching Forest correct English, I talk like he now.

He set the unfortunate rooster down and we walked to the shop to give Daddy the bad news. Graeme was so upset I thought he might tear his clothes, like in Bible times. He had really been looking forward to tinga. We all walked back to the cage and stared at the roosters. What the heck happened? It hadn’t even been 24 hours without food, and they still had water.

And then we realized they had had a few hours without shade. Well, poopsicle.

We accidentally fried they to a crisp.

One of them even looked a little crispy. The little red thingy on top which is usually a nasty squishy thing was now a nasty crunchy thing. Poor thing. Why did we not think of this? Probably because I’m from the city and Graeme’s experience is limited to flies.

The roosters’ cage was right next to the chicken coop, and they were both under the same tree, but the sun hit that particular spot in a particular way, and in the evening we had a rooster burial and pizza for dinner.

And that is the story of the three roosters and their unfortunate demise. We wanted to butcher them, but not quite like that. I felt terribly guilty, but found comfort in knowing we would never have to deal with this again. We would still be woken up early, but by a baby and not a bird.

The next morning, I sighed with relief. Ah, no more roosters.

I sang Edelweiss as I picked tomatoes from the garden. What a nice day.

Edelweiss, Edelweiss, every morning you greet me.

Small and white, clean and bright, you look happy to meet me.

Blossom of snow may you bloom and COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!

What.

I almost dropped my basket of tomatoes.

I slowly walked over to the coop, and met the gaze of our most hen looking hen.

She looked at me defiantly, puffed her chest, threw her head back and let out a tremendous crow.

Our most hen looking hen is a rooster.