Roosters

One of the things I find most fascinating about life is the way that people change. When I got married, I knew I was not marrying the same man I started dating 6 years earlier. Now another 6 years have gone by, and the man I am married to now is neither the man I dated nor the one I married, but someone new entirely. On the same note, I have known my mother in-law for more than 12 years, and our relationship has evolved drastically several times over.

Our second group of baby chicks was a mix of Barred Rocks and Golden Comets that we purchased from a feed store. My mother in-law ordered 15 chicks, she picked them up, picked out the 7 she wanted, and gave us the other 8. These chicks were already sexed, meaning they were all hens, supposedly. Now not one of ours turned out to be a rooster... and not one, but TWO of my mother in-law's did.

A couple weeks after getting the chicks, my mother in-law kept saying to me, "I think Rosie is a rooster." I thought she was paranoid. Then she kept saying, "I think Dorothy is a rooster." And I told her she was paranoid. But then she called one day and said, "Well, Rosie is Rosco." And soon after, Dorothy was dubbed Dilbert.

For weeks she agonized over what to do with her roosters. Roosters are not allowed in the city, and her neighbors several houses down could hear Rosco crowing all day long at the top of his jarring voice. Briefly she entertained the idea of finding a farm or 4H kid that would want a rooster, but those do not exist. Roosters are not nice animals to have around, and if anyone wants one, they certainly do not want more than one. And really, considering how many chickens the average family eats per month, the choice was obvious.

Well then she agonized over how to have them butchered. It's not like you drive down the road to the local butcher and have them slaughter and dress your birds. Very few people are in that business nowadays, and the people who are, are not exactly local. She found a couple places that would do it, but she did not want to drive that far. It was becoming increasingly evident, that she was counting on her son to do the deed for her. That would be my husband.

When Alex was a boy and we were dating, I never would have imagined that he could kill anything. He was so sweet and mild tempered. He is still mild tempered, but men change. One minute he can be painting our daughters toenails and kissing her baby doll, and then next he can flip this switch that turns him into an unfeeling killer. He hunts, and for the last year, all of our red meat has come from a deer he shot. He has wonderful reasons for hunting. Free range, organic meat, from an animal that had a great life and was killed humanely is not something you can buy in the store. And frankly, anyone opposed to hunting who eats meat is choosing to be ignorant of where their meat comes from.

So Alex said he would do the chickens at our place, if I didn't mind. I said it was ok with me, as long as I did not have to clean up after it. So, my mother in-law set a day to bring her chickens out to our place, and we loaned her a big dog cage in which to transport them.

Well the day before, she called me, and I could tell she was a little shaken. She had attempted to get these roosters into the cage. First she tried to get ahold of them the way you would normally catch a chicken, which requires great stealth and cunning, and looks absolutely foolish. She hopped all around the run, chasing one until it was cornered, then got her hands over the wings, so he could not flap. The rooster however, had gotten really strong and aggressive with those same hormones that made him crow. He lurched and squirmed violently until he got first one wing, then another free. This left her grasping his feet, holding her face back while he squawked and flapped with all his might. She had to let him go, and after that dramatic performance, all her chickens were hiding from her. In the end, she came in embarrassed and exhausted. I suggested she take them off their roosts that night when they were asleep. She agreed, but confessed she was afraid of them now.

So Alex and I went over to his parents' house, and he scoffed at his mom's lack of chutzpah, and our silly plans of outsmarting these roosters. He walked into the chicken run, saying "watch the man do it." He disappeared and we heard all kinds of chicken outrage. We eagerly watched, delighted that he was going to make a fool of himself, but then he reappeared carrying a placid looking rooster hanging upside-down. He put it in the cage, marched back to the run, and reappeared a few seconds later with the other rooster. And that was that. His mom and I just stood there with our mouths hanging open, until finally I blurted out, "Who IS that man?!"

The next day, Alex's mom arrived bright and early with her roosters and a plan. She had watched all kinds of YouTube videos and had become highly educated on the butchering of chickens. Alex very matter-of-factly changed his clothes and went outside to construct a chopping block and sharpen his machete. I heated up a huge pot of water, and my mother in-law filled a cooler with ice water. Alex chopped the heads off and drained the blood, then his mom put them in the hot water, followed by the cold, then scraped off their feathers. I let the kids watch everything but the killing, thinking this was a highly educational experience. After they were done, they cleaned up. My mother in-law scooped up all the feathers and threw them in the woods, which my dog later discovered, ate, and puked up all over the inside of my house.

They brought the chickens inside to wash and gut. As we were all working in the kitchen (them on the chickens, me frantically putting my dishes away to protect them from chicken guts), I noticed that Alex and his mom were spattered with blood, and I was having another of those, How did I get here?!,  moments. Alex's mom looked up and our eyes met. We both laughed, and she said, "Did you ever think, in a million years, that you and I would be butchering chickens in your kitchen?"

The next day, the whole family got together for a delicious chicken dinner, and we all went away with a more profound respect for the life and work that goes into our food.