Chicken in our fridge

We have one less barred rock hen running around in the backyard.  

And that is definitely a good thing.  It is an even better thing that I did not need to contribute to the elimination of our dearly departed.  Jacob and our very kind friend Matt took care of that yesterday.  Don't worry, I didn't take any pictures of gore, because I didn't want to see it myself.  These nicely document the event without any shock factor.  I'm already recruiting a volunteer for the next slaughter, so Jacob has a partner and I can keep my lunch down.   Any takers?

In the meantime, we have some very fresh, nicely roasted chicken in the fridge if anyone wants to come over for dinner tomorrow night : )

 She's still alive, and being slipped into a gallon milk jug.  So far, so good.

 Her head and neck hung out of the container nicely, and she was perfectly still while contained.  I watched out the window and knew I could snap a picture before it got nasty.

There is a huge gap in the sequence here, because what came before this shot, and after the last one, was the actual slitting of the throat and bleeding out.  Matt held the feet while Jacob took a knife and did the work.  Is this too much detail?  If you want to know about that part, call Jacob.

This picture above is after little hen has gone the way of her ancestors, and Matt and Jacob are assessing the temperature of the water so they can dunk her and begin plucking feathers.  He bought a turkey fryer on Amazon, hooked it to the propane tank and boiled the water. 

 One very limp hen.

Plucking.  They said it wasn't nearly as bad as they expected.  They dunked her in hot/boiling water for just a few seconds (I think), to loosen the feathers, but not too long to start cooking the skin.  What good bonding time together.

 

Okay, here is where I enter the scene.  My job was to prepare the bird for cooking.  Jacob cleaned her out and even rinsed her before she came into the kitchen.  I needed to sprinkle the inside with pepper and salt, and then fill with lemon wedges.  My sprinkling method, which thankfully no one witnessed, was to hold the chicken (with my trusty glove) with my left hand and just throw salt and pepper inside.  It stuck to the side in large patches, and I don't think it was very evenly distributed.  But NO WAY was I sticking my hand inside that thing. 

Here she is, deader than dead.  I began carving and had quite a task at hand.  Jacob ate some right away and said it was good, but tough.  The expression on my face for most of the carving was somewhat like a combination of squinting in the sunlight and trying to pronounce some french vowel that rhymes with "eeew".  She was one tough-meated bird and I guess I am still a recovering vegetarian.  We learned that chickens should be eaten well before they are a year old.  She was probably near 1.5 years old.

 Now we know.    

The entire process, from setting up outside, to bringing a cleaned chicken into the house was about 2 hours.  Jacob thinks it will go quicker next time.  

 

For the record, I can't bring myself to eat the chicken.  And also for the record, Jacob teased me that I shouldn't be proud of being so squeamish.  I am not proud of it.  I wish I could have helped him and that he didn't need to call a friend.  I am getting better, though, because a few years ago, I could never have even carved this little bird. 

 But the truth is, at heart, I am a city mouse.

Thank you Matt!