I finally posted an entry at OneFatBitchypoo, and at the bottom there’s a link to my surgery before-and-after pictures. No underwear pics, though, ya pervs.
I’m plenty pleased with my results.
Almost two years ago when we bought this house, we bought it with the intention of making a life for ourselves that was both simpler and a lot more work. We wanted to go from a McMansion house on a tiny bit of land to a smaller house that suited us better on a lot more land. Land we could use to feed ourselves. With that in mind, we planted a garden to provide us with vegetables and we bought chickens to provide us with eggs and eventually meat.
This summer, there’s been a disconnect between what we’d intended and what we’d accomplished – that is, we were getting plenty of vegetables from the garden, and eating them and putting them away for the winter, we were eating lots of eggs (I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of scrambled eggs), and our chicken population was growing by leaps and bounds.
But we weren’t killing and eating chickens the way we’d intended. At first, we didn’t kill any of our first batch of chickens because they were providing us so nicely with eggs and even enough that we could occasionally sell some. Then we got the second batch of chickens, and we still didn’t eat any chickens, because we were waiting for our second batch to start laying.
With every meal, the disconnect grew. We were eating vegetables we’d grown ourselves on plates next to factory-grown chickens who assuredly don’t live the life of Riley the ways ours do.
And then we realized that Flappy, after providing us with the super-freaky double egg, stopped laying altogether. Fred suggested that we use her as our “test” chicken, to see if we had the intestinal fortitude to eat our own chickens. I put him off for a while, but this past week he got insistent. It was apparently time to put our money where our mouths were. Were we going to be able to kill and eat one of our own chickens, or should we just make little beds for them in the house and start treating them like pets?
We talked about doing it early Friday morning, but Fred was afraid that he’d lay awake all night fretting about it, so when he got home Thursday from work, he declared that it was time. We went out and tried to catch Flappy.
Flappy – always a bit of a spaz – dodged and feinted and weaved and hid under the chicken coop. I don’t for one minute believe that she had any idea what was coming, just that these big lumbering idiots were trying to touch her and she DID NOT WANT. After a few tries, I noticed that there was an unused gate leaned up against the chicken coop, and I grabbed it and it helped immeasurably in cornering her.
Fred picked her up, and she was completely calm and docile. We walked through the chicken yard to a spot over by the garden where Fred had put the big tree stump we were going to use. It wasn’t until this point that I started getting butterflies in my stomach. I’d occasionally thought during the day of what we were going to do, but hadn’t dwelt on it. Fred and I are polar opposites when it comes to this sort of thing – he dreads it all the way up until the moment of, and then he’s okay; I’m okay right up until the moment of.
Fred put her down on the stump, her head between two nails. She remained completely calm, and I lifted the hatchet to do the chop, and she blinked up at me. Something about seeing her blink made the voice in my head scream “NO WAY”, but then I thought “I have to”, and a moment later it was done. Then I turned and walked away a little and lost it for a moment.
Fred wrote that I preferred to do the actual chopping rather than hold her body, but in actuality I volunteered to do the chopping because then I wouldn’t feel bad about going inside and letting him deal with the feathers and guts. He never suggested that I do the chop; it was my idea. I never really doubted that I could do it, but I didn’t ENJOY it or look forward to it.
I suspect that it surprises a lot of people that I would be willing to do the killing myself, and that I’ll be doing it again in the future. It surprises me that it surprises you. Though they’re very entertaining to watch, and I like Frick a LOT (Frick is absolutely never going to become dinner; she’s too much like a little puppy, and I get to play favorites if I want to) and I am without a doubt an animal lover, I don’t consider the chickens to be our pets. They’re a food source, and they’ll be spoiled rotten as long as they’re with us, but in the end they’re going to be eaten.
That’s what they’re for.
(Fred wrote about the process in a little more detail, if you’re interested.)
The disconcerting thing to me was how at 4:00 Flappy looked like any ol’ chicken running around, and an hour later she looked like a chicken you’d see in the grocery store. I don’t know what I expected her to look like, but apparently I didn’t expect her to look like that.
Once Fred cleaned her, we put her in a bag in the refrigerator, then on Saturday I made a brine and put her in it. For Sunday lunch, we had roasted chicken, deviled eggs (made with our eggs and pickle relish I canned last year), green beans, oven-fried yellow and pattypan squash, corn on the cob, and sliced tomatoes. Everything grown in our garden or in our chicken yard.
Fred’s plate:
It was fabulous.
Back when we named the pigs (and we never ever call them by name, by the way – they’re just “the big pig” and “the pushy little bastard pig” to us these days), people warned us that naming them would ensure we’d never eat them.
Well.
We named Flappy, and not only did we eat her, we called her by name right up until the moment we ate her – and even while we were eating her, as a matter of fact. So apparently naming animals doesn’t stop US from eating them.
Out of curiosity – anyone still think we won’t eat those pigs?
“Be vewwy quiet, girlies. It will come closer and I will GET IT! Watch Mama at work!”
Something hath disturbed the Boogs.
Previously
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: No entry.
2003: Handwritten.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: Jemima J.
Hmm… I was all “yeah, yeah, okay, uh-huh” right up until “we put her in a bag in the refrigerator.” That weirded me out a bit. At about the point where there are no feathers and the body is in pieces, I think the pronoun should shift from “he” or “she” to “it.” Seems too Dahmerish otherwise.
So dish: Is homegrown chicken significantly better tasting than storebought?
I’m with Elayne. Continuing to call her by name while she’s on your plate gave me the heebiejeebies. But you and Fred have demonstrated time and again you’re stronger people than I shall ever be, so whatever floats your chicken-murderin’ boat. 😉
Oh I have no doubt you will eat the pigs…but I thought I read you will not be doing the slaughtering, correct?
I swear, I thought you were going to segue into saying, “and that’s why Fred and I have become vegan,” ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
I was wondering did Flappy taste better than store bought?
It wasn’t to chickeny I hope.
Dear Robyn,
I’m thrilled for you and Fred. It’s truly lovely to see your dream realized. I have never seen two people more suited for one another and together you have found your paradise. God Bless you both.Jenn
P.S. I looked at your smoking hot skinny ass pics over at OFB.You go!
Good for you, Robyn! Personally, I don’t think I could do it. I’m reading “The Omnivore’s Dilemma,” and there’s a passage in there about killing chickens. The author takes his turn at it to see what it’s like. It’s certainly better than how factory chickens are raised and killed. Have you read this book? You might find it interesting.
I think it’s a great thing to raise your own chickens. When you ate that chicken for dinner, you knew that it was raised in a good environment, and that it was well cared for and that it wasn’t kept in a cage for its whole miserable life. And I give you kudos for being strong enough to do what you did.
As for me, I would have stopped chasing her and declared that I would never eat one of my own chickens. I’m not strong enough.
Also, I agree about the pronoun thing – I’d be having to call it an it, not a she.
You guys rock!
I never doubted you. 🙂
I figured you had to kill chickens sooner or later. Otherwise, you’d be known as the crazy chicken lady instead of crazy cat lady. You ONLY have 9 permanent cats. Do you even know how many chickens you have these days? I had no doubt on the pigs either. You do not like them, you won’t pet them, you feed them using a long stick etc! Ha ha! I was surprised when Fred mentioned in his blog that the pigs are going in August or September. I thought it was jore like November. He did mention getting cow. Are you going to be milking it or Fred or is it going to be a steer just for beef?
Oh there is NO doubt that farm raised is better than the store. I reallly like the Cornish Xs myself, and the damn things are DONE in 6 weeks of growing time.
Older hens like FLappy — well, I admit to being really lazy and just cutting out the breasts and feeding the rest to the dogs (or pigs)
I KNOW you’ll eat the pigs, cause they are not very cute by the time they are nearly #300 🙂
And if you don’t eat them, it doesn’t give you an excuse to get new cute piglets, lol.
Hey, yeah do those undies ride up? I have to admit, I buy men’s bikini underwear because for whatever reason, THEY stay where they are supposed to be. Womens always seem to be up my butt.
You look great, Robyn!
Kudos to you and Fred for carrying through with your plan. I also think your goal/nobel experiment is something more people should do: ONLY if you can raise/kill your own meat source should you have it in your diet. Far too many people think grabbing pre-packaged meat from the grocery store somehow isn’t real meat — as in, once a living, breathing creature.
My dilemma started about ten years ago: I suppose my love of animals finally made me more and more reluctant to eat meat. Long before husband had his first heart attack (cholesterol is deadly), I was almost a vegetarian (not vegan). My thoughts went something like this: a cat, a dog, a horse are animals. I have had them for pets, and I KNOW they all have feelings/personalities. In some countries they eat dogs, cats and horses. How can one condemn that if one eats meat? Also, I’m less convinced that meat is the only source of complete protein, and also that over the years, it has bad health consequences.
After not eating red meat (pork/beef/etc) for a good long while, I find it has a horrible taste to me. I don’t even like to be anywhere near when it’s cooking — the smell makes me sick to my stomach.
Hi Robyn! I’m a frequent reader delurking to comment on your wonderful plate of homegrown goodness. Although I dream of living life like you and Fred, I don’t think I’d have the nerve come killing time. More power to you. Your green beans look just like my Grandma’s. Would you please tell us how your cook them?
We had a family farm when I was a child and my uncle raised cattle on it. If the cow was born on your birthday, he would name it after you. One Christmas at their house, we had roast beef and after I had eaten about half of what was on my plate, he announced we were eating “Robbie”, the name of a favorite cousin. I attribute this, and other animal killing/skinning/gutting things that happened on the farm to the reason I am currently a vegetarian (and have been since I moved out of my mom’s house, about 17 years ago.)
Congrats on living the dream. Better you than me (though I am very envious of your garden!)
I’m impressed that you did it. Congratulations!
I plan to raise my own food very shortly for all
the same reasons and it’s so interesting (and liberating)
to read your stories and experiences. You give me courage!
Good for you! I’m giving the vegetarian/half-assed vegan lifestyle a try at the moment, but I wouldn’t be worrying about that if I lived in your house!! Like you say, you spoil them rotten until they end up being dinner. I wish we could all live like you and grow our own food!
A long time ago I read a story about a little girl who showed her lamb at the fair. The lamb won first place and was sold in the Grand Champions auction. The higher the price went, the more the little girl cried. When it was finally sold, the buyer gave it back to the girl to the cheers of the crowd. She later said she cried because she couldn’t believe how much money HER lamb was bringing, and that the lamb tasted delicious.
I used to work on a poultry farm and it cracks me up that you went through the chopping method to kill your bird. We used to just put a foot on their head to hold them down and give a good yank on their legs. That breaks their necks and kills them instantly. I never had one go all flappy on me afterwards. I would never have lived through the sprayed with blood thing either. ick
You may have noticed that I have remained quiet on this, but since you asked…
I don’t know, Robyn. A part of me feels like you should listen to your heart and if your heart tells you it’s uncomfortable, well then it shouldn’t be done. On the other hand, if you’re okay with it, it’s your life, right?
I’m so happy for you in that you are living your dream and have accomplished your personal goals. But it does freak me out that you call these animals by their names up until the moment you slaughter them.
Pigs may not be cute or even friendly (although treated differently, they probably would be), but they do have a high level of intelligence and emotionality. I guess what makes it socially acceptable to eat a pig over say, a dog or cat, is that the ratio of edible to non-edible parts of a pig is larger than that of a cat or dog.
All of this is mute though because if you are going to conintue to eat meat, letting a slaughterhouse do the job for you wouldn’t make it any better.
I hope I don’t come off as sounding judgmental or whatever. You know I think the world of you (and always will) but you did ask. 😉
I don’t eat animals, but I have no qualms (well, not many) about what you guys do. That chicken lived better and died better than a chicken on a factory farm X 1000.
See? We’re not so bad (Fred).
Wow. A vegan (Janet, not Christy) sounding preachy and sanctimonious. Who would’ve ever guessed it?
For the record, the pigs are very friendly, and pretty damn cute when they’re smacking on cookies or chocolate. And they will taste damn fine.
My intent was not to come off sounding sanctimonious or preachy. Robyn asked for an opinion. I gave it- perhaps it wasn’t what she was asking for, but since we’ve known each other for several years, I felt comfortable speaking my mind. Friends can do that without getting shitty about it. And honestly Fred, I’m not saying that raising animals for slaughter is WRONG; your attitude however, seems pretty machismo and frankly, kind of scary. You have fun slaughtering your animals, Fred. There’s more to life than how something tastes, btw.
P.S. A private email would have worked just as well.
Janet, I fail to see where in her entry Robyn asked for an opinion. I see where she asked a RHETORICAL yes/no question, and that’s it. You took that as an opportunity to preach (“it’s your life, right?” “this is mute [sic] though because if you are going to conintue [sic] to eat meat, letting a slaughterhouse do the job for you wouldn’t make it any better”), so I felt obliged to answer. Robyn’s nice that way; I’m not.
You were right about one thing, though. It is our life, and anyone who thinks what we do is wrong or somehow immoral is not forced to read about our foibles.
I’m just glad that you aren’t “processing” the pigs yourself! Ewwww!!!!!! 🙂 The chicken seemed relatively easy. But a pig seems like it would be so messy and smelly……
Fred- I was under the impression that I was commenting in Robyn’s journal – not yours. You have simply only reiterated my point about you finding pleasure in what you do to these animals by the swiftness in your response to my contrary opinion. Speaking of sanctimonious, your eagerness in pointing out my typos and misspellings really suits you.
Robyn- I really to apologize for “flaming” your comments. I hope you know that wasn’t my intent. I really did give my opinion where it wasn’t welcomed, and I do apologize.
*sniff*
i am a carnivore, but this entry made me cry for Flappy. I’m glad you guys got through it, I would not have been able to. You guys are living your dream of your farm, and I love & respect that. But I’m still sad for Flappy, because I’ve been entertained by Flappy’s pics & personification as brought to us all by Robyn.
I bet Flappy tasted good, though. I do love me some chicken, and I bet the fact that you guys raised Flappy helped that chicken taste all the better.
Fred! Sheesh. I can totally see where Janet is coming from. I know Janet, and I know how much she cares about Robyn, and I don’t think she was coming from a judgmental place. I don’t think Janet’s vegan, either, but that’s neither here nor there. You have to admit that your recent farming adventure and your stories are jarring considering that you’re not by vocation a farmer, and that you refer to these animals in a rather anthropomorphic manner. I grew up on a farm, and I eat meat, so I readily accept that on that level I am a hypocrite. Be that as it may, I think you’re going to have to expect these kinds of responses from time to time.
Robyn you know I love ya, and that’ll never change. xo
Janet, you’re right. I get a great deal of pleasure out of raising animals that are very well treated, live like royalty, and get killed as quickly and humanely as possible. I get even more pleasure out of not sending my money to the factory farmers. If you’re trying to imply I get pleasure out of killing them, you’d be wrong (but I do get pleasure out of eating them, it seems).
Why does Flappy look raw in the photo?!?
The critters of Crooked Acres seem to have pretty nice lives. They’re treated very well & they get care if they need it. Nothing I’ve read here (granted, I haven’t read Fred’s account)leads me to believe that either Fred or Robyn particularly ENJOY the killing part, it’s simply a necessary process for them to live the lifestyle they’ve chosen.
I’m an omnivore myself. I am very aware that the meat I eat was once a living, feeling creature. I’d love to have a farm and grow and raise my own food. I have more of a problem with people who never give a second thought to where their food comes from than people like Fred & Robyn who treat their livestock well and seem to be very caring and compassionate folks.
I say, if you don’t want to read about a certain activity at Crooked Acres, then skip the entry. There will be plenty more entries that have nothing to do with the topic that bothers you… (unless cats bother you… then you’ve come to the wrong place). Carry on, Crooked Acres!
I’m a long time reader and I love to read about your life on your farm. I think what you’ve learned about gardening and raising livestock is amazing. You’ve definitely inspired me to seek out locally grown and raised food.
{{{Robyn}}} The first time is always the hardest. Emotional or not, you had goals that must be met in order to keep life at Crooked Acres in control and harmonious.
I think this entry was a nice tribute to Flappy.
Oh for God’s sake. Animals are put here for us to eat.That’s it. That is the way it has been for millions of years.Should we just let the animals over-run the planet and have to wade through six feet of chicken shit? Enough sanctimonious horseshit.Robyn names eveything including the vaccum cleaner. WTF- go hug a tree.
Jenn. Bite me. Thankyouverymuch!!
A pat on the back to you. I think it’s the honorable thing to do. If you’re going to eat meat, you need to appreciate the sacrifice of the animal.
Love seeing what you’ve got growing in your garden.
Jenn, I don’t see the need to be condescending or rude. Robyn and I understand one another, and are able to manage a friendship while maybe not seeing eye to eye on everything. Thanks for your input anyway.
You know, from reading this thread, it’s hard not to come to the conclusion that it’s the omnivores who are the ones being pushy, preachy and defensive. Believe it or not, a lot of us vegans don’t care what you put in your mouth. On the other hand, we care very much on how the things you put in your mouth were treated before they reached that stage, and though we would definitely prefer Fred to put up a little warning at the top of his posts (BEWARE, LURID BLOODY DESCRIPTION OF SENSELESS SLAUGHTER AHEAD – tee hee) we certainly admire his dedication to ensuring that his dinner has a good, healthy life and a clean, painless death. Would all people were that conscious; the world would be a better place.
As is, I am in a position where I cannot eat meat without contributing to those obscene and torturous institutions called factory farms, and I utterly refuse to contribute to them when I can partake of peaceful, compassionate alternatives.
(wanders off to hug a random tree and pet my kitteh)
Too bad you filled in the “pond”; you could have dug it deeper and raised your own catfish. Then you’d have meat, poultry and fish for dinner!!
Two things. First, my dad and stepmom have chickens and ducks that they’re raising in their back yard. My stepmom however, is so attached to them that she won’t even eat their egges.
Second, I was told that my great grandmother lived on a farm and would just kill the chicken by grabbing it by the neck and swinging it around over her head breaking the neck.
ahem… “eggs”.
Seems to me like so far that chicken is the only thing Fred has killed to date. So I don’t see how he is “enjoying killing his animals”. Right? 🙂
Jenn, I disagree that they were “put here for us to eat,” but whatever. The fact that they treat them so well and do not contribute to factory farming makes me have respect for them and what they do. That is the main reason I stopped eating animals. And for me, it’s just not necessary.
I will not get preachy or sanctimonious because it is obvious that they care for the health and comfort of these animals no matter what their purpose, or how long they will be there.