If you’re a vegetarian for moral reasons, you may as well stop here; this won't be to your liking. I used to be one of those, but even after nearly two meat-free years, I still craved meat desperately … and eventually came to the conclusion that it was what I needed.
Yet I still wrestle with the whole idea that another being’s life is ended so that I may eat it. And I’ve always wondered if I could actually do the deed myself, honestly facing the reality of my choices. Too many people think of meat as something that simply appears on a Styrofoam shrink-wrapped tray at the supermarket, unaware of the issues that swirl around the cruel and inhumane practices of factory farming, the medicated and GMO-derived animal feeds served up, the growth-enhancing hormones injected, all of which, of course, eventually affect our health as well. Not to mention the environmental damage that results.
Anyway, we’ve kept laying hens for years, and have had some of them butchered for us by a farmer friend when they got old. So easy, shipping them off and getting them backed all nicely plucked, bagged, and ready for the freezer; but of course, old hens are really only good for the stewpot.
This time, we’ve got meat birds. Twenty-four of ‘em, all eating like little pigs, so much so that you can nearly sit and watch them grow bigger. It only takes twelve weeks until they’re ready for Freezer Camp – they’re bred to be voracious eaters. Freedom Rangers, they’re called, and although that sounds like they are card-carrying members of the Tea Party, they are a French breed. Vive la Liberte.
It’s a weird experience for me. I have a sort of affection for my laying hens, my “girls.” They’re greeted with, “Hello, ladies!” in the morning; some run up and squat to get patted; they get “treats” of watermelon rinds and cabbage and all manner of good scraps. I always thank them when I collect their eggs, which may sound a bit woo-woo, but I’m expressing my gratitude to the Universe in general for the goodness of these fresh eggs for our table. But these meat chicks … well, I’m keeping my distance, in a way. Just a general “Hey, kids,” when I approach to give them more food and water. Of course, I don’t want to get attached to them, or find them too cute or endearing … and truly, they are helping in this regard, being a mob of semi-crazed fowl who rush any human in a frenzied manner and try to peck your hands and gobble your feet (even though they have plenty to eat in their feeder). It’s just their nature, single-minded eating machines that they are.
So they are enjoying the sun, the fresh air, the grass and bugs, the space to run around ... for another six weeks or so.
And so the question looms, unanswered so far: will I be brave/honest enough to help with the butchering this time? I think of the generations of women all over the world, stretching way back in time, who have very matter-of-factly killed a bird for the dinner table more times than they could count. I’ve cleaned and plucked before; it’s the actual taking of life that, well, I don’t know if I can do. I can’t even watch a needle going into an arm for a blood test. It’s going to be one of those Face Your Fear and Do It Anyway experiences, I think. We’ll see. Six more weeks …
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