Chicken Anyone?

Chicken Anyone?

Up until I was eight, we raised chickens. I guess we had about twelve to sixteen hens and one rooster. For a few years the girls were quite adept at laying eggs, but eventually their production waned which made the care and maintenance too much of a burden for dad and he decided to terminate the project.

For several weeks after that, the hen selected for early retirement took center stage as our Sunday dinner. Lucky for us my mom made great fried chicken. She also took a turn or two at making chicken and dumplings. To the best of my recollection everyone that partook of them gave them rave reviews. In those days I didn’t have the love for them that I do today, so when she worked that into our weekly dinner I opted for a bologna sandwich.

Gradually the flock of hens decreased until there was just one hen and the rooster that had serviced the girls for the last few years of their lives. The hen met with her demise when my cousin rung its neck. We stood back and watched as the headless body flailed around the yard for a few seconds flapping its wings and spraying blood everywhere. For just a moment I thought it was going to take wing and escape to parts unknown, but that’s when the working part finally shutdown and it collapsed in a heap.

We put the poor thing in a washtub, poured boiling hot water over her, and plucked the feathers. The smell was worse than atrocious, and it was all I could do to keep the contents of my stomach contained. The chicken blood over the yard was no problem, but those last two chickens reeked to high heaven.

The hen mom butchered and wrapped like an early Christmas present without the bow. The pretty package ended up in the freezer destined for a Sunday dinner date yet to be determined. Needless to say when that day finally arrived we all breathed a sigh of relief that we’d finally reached the end of the old hens.

The old white rooster – a devilish bird if there ever was one – met his maker as he stared down the barrel of a twenty-two rifle from the cover of a blackberry bush. He’d already escaped the ax with his chicken feet and was sizing up the predicament he’d gotten himself into. I’m sure he was contemplating his next strategic attack maneuver when the bullet put him out of our misery. Defiant to the last, he used his death throes to expire beneath the vines of the bush. The briars inflicted a multitude of scratches before he could be removed thus accomplishing what the rooster hadn’t been able to in the end.

Once in the tub his body took on a new persona. I can still remember the featherless chicken floating in the scalding water with his feet sticking up in some pitiful last ditch attempt to maybe beg forgiveness for the trouble he’d caused. During his stay with us he’d harden our hearts to stone and his pleas found no fertile ground within us.

The fowl bird had been just that. He’d attack at feeding time usually appearing from some unseen hiding place determined to have both feed and the hasty retreat of the intruding individual bringing his meal. Even my dad; who I felt had no fear; did not tarry when he entered the coop. We supposed even the hens were afraid of this creature which would explain the downturn in egg production and the ultimate termination of the project. Mom proclaimed the tough old bird unfit to fry and disposed of his carcass in a soup instead. I remember her saying she cooked the hell out of him, and as I recall in the soup… he was one good bird.