| Sunny Side Up July 30, 2003 �2003, Kathleen Gibson Invited to a chicken-killing bee Emily Dickinson said that hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul. Maybe so, but chickens are those things without, that hunker in my freezer. Though until recently, I'd never been responsible for putting them there. When Judy told me about the upcoming chicken-killing bee at her farm, I plead to participate. Writing from personal experience means that every so often I need to leave my desk and actually have an 'experience.' "Sure," she said. I think I heard a chuckle. "C'mon over." She didn't add "city mouse," but ten to one she thought it. On the road, I worried a little. As a child, my best friend, Mona Willerton, invited me to her farm. Her parents killed chickens that weekend. Mona and I were assigned to catch and bring them to the chopping block. Not one of the chickens I caught made it there. I threw them all back into the coop-Killing live feathery things appalled me. Late that night her parents burned all the parts they didn't want. The stench sickened me and the Willertons took me home in the wee hours of the morning. Home was far away-forty-five minutes, at least. They never asked me back. That was nearly four decades ago. I had no idea what would happen today. Other women arrived at Judy's for the butchering bee. A sheepdog hunched in the corner by the chicken coop, his face turned steadfastly away. A pet bunny huddled in her hutch, no doubt thanking God he made her a rabbit and not a chicken. Songbirds twittered, and a stiff breeze kept the mosquitoes and flies away. Patiently the others-- all old hands-- taught me the art of butchering. Judy beheaded, but with the rest of the women I collected them from where they lay after they'd danced their headless selves into the bushes. Held them upside down and swished them around in a vat of scalding water to loosen the feathers. Plucked, washed, gutted, peeled the feet, sliced open and emptied gizzards. The chicken killing took under four hours. I didn't feel sick. I didn't ask to be taken home. And I shed not a tear for those thirty-five pretty white chickens. Not bad for a city mouse. Perhaps I'm finally mature enough to understand something: If I want chicken for dinner, it has to die first. If I'm not comfortable with that, perhaps I oughtn't eat it. I thank God regularly for the food on my table. Now my thanks are a little more educated and a lot more heartfelt, especially when the meal is chicken. Funny thing. The week after the killing bee Judy called to say she was bringing a few over for the freezer. But when I opened the box, I found buffalo meat-- her husband's idea, Judy told me. God is great, God is good, and I thank him for our food. But Lord, don't send me to a buffalo butchering bee anytime soon. Pretty please. Respond to these words at [email protected] |
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