Three-week-old chicks have very little meat and their hearts are about the size of a dime. I learned that today when I dressed out poultry for the first time ever to teach my son an important life lesson about being an "ethical" omnivore.
You may have read my rule here on the blog before, back when my son was playing with a frog. I want to discourage "over-playing" with animals. Boys with lots of energy are prone to that sort of thing. But to say "we don't kill animals" would be a bit disingenuous since we eat them fairly regularly. Thus, the household rule "if you kill it, you eat it."
I always saw it as a bluff.
Dinner tonight took a little longer to prepare than usual and it was dinner for one. It's still waiting to be consumed.
This day would probably be easier on Frederick if the death was an accident. It was not, though it was probably more in the realm of chickslaughter than first-degree murder. Apparently, he did not quite believe me when I told him not to hold chicks by the neck. He is only five years old, so I do believe that he didn't fully appreciate the consequences of his actions. He has a much better idea of those consequences now that he saw the chick bled out and skinned.
(My dad just stopped by and said "You did what?")
Poultry Struggles
What makes Frederick's dinner particularly difficult around here is our summer's struggle with keeping our poultry alive. First, we did lose Henny Penny and Harriet, the two older hens who decided to sleep in the trees instead of protected in their hen house. We should all be able to choose to live out our last days in the way we see fit. Those two hens lived six to eight weeks in freedom - far longer than any of us thought was possible.
Bob killed Henny and Harriet as well as about five of the hens from the other batch. The fifteen chicks we purchased last fall have turned into five.
To make matters worse, we bought a new batch of chicks about six weeks ago and we lost all but one to a predator. We were wondering whether we should really get new chicks again when we found the sole survivor of the attack and were so inspired by her survival that we thought she needed friends.
After a business meeting last week I stumbled upon a small mom-and-pop feed store and bought three "Henny Pennys" (White Leghorns), five "Harriets" (Araucanas), and seven Rhode Island Reds.
Dear Henny Penny
The chick that Frederick killed is one of the "Henny Pennys." Henny Penny was my mom's favorite hen and she looked forward to a new batch of Hennys. She is on a trip right now with her brother driving through the eastern Sierras (and hopefully acquiring some local salt for me for the Eat Local Challenge). I hate to give her this news. Frederick is suggesting that we "just buy a new Henny Penny and not tell her." Another idea is "tell her the bobcat ate it." That is, of course, exactly what I would do if I had killed the chick or allowed it to die. As the parent on duty, I really cannot allow that kind of sneaky behavior.
He will face his grandma Thursday night or Friday and it should be memorable. He is very close to my mom and I expect he is heartbroken that she will be disappointed in his behavior. I am attempting to get advance word to her. We are walking a fine line between "memorable" and "scarred for life."
I'll add some pictures tomorrow, though they are not for the faint of heart.
Just as an update to a previous post, back in July, Angela asked if my dad was going to have to eat the bobcat he was hunting. Maybe. He's still hunting. Our rule is going to have a lot more meaning around here now.
