Phil ran up to Esmont to deliver some invoices (whoo whoo!), and when he came back, we decided to process the feral chickens. Yesterday evening Phil had captured the remaining birds outside the pen (they get really slow, both thinking and moving, after dark), so we were ready.
First, he transformed our garden cart into a handy carrying pen (above and below, in action). This was brilliant: last time we processed chickens, Isaiah and I spent probably an hour running back and forth from their pen to the killing cones. This way, Phil had a way to transport them all at one fell swoop.
Joe watched Phil's progress, holding the last eggs these chickens will lay. He held them carefully until he needed to climb some stairs: he needs his hands for that, so he relinquished them at last.
Phil managed to get most of the chickens on his own; he even sustained minor lacerations by an assertive rooster. Then I tried to help, by climbing in the pen with him. The cagey caged birds knew a lot of tricks (one even managed to escape by flying past Phil's shoulder!), but of the 25 penned up, only three got out during the capture. One Phil snagged as it walked by (he has amazing fast-twitch muscles, I tell you).
One he plinked with the .22 (and I rejoiced when I heard the sound!).
And one remains on the lam.
While I worked inside, Phil methodically killed them all and hung them to age a bit while he ate lunch. Many of them feel small and light, but a few feel fairly good-sized. We aren't sure, but maybe six of the 25 are original laying hens that weren't content to stay in their pen; the rest are the offspring of the broody hens.
We've been having some trouble keeping our camp stove lit, which turned out to be the regulator. Incredibly, Phil had a spare regulator, and after a small delay, our "redneck scalder" was ready for action.
Sadly, our super expensive plucker is not working well, either. So Phil spent nearly as much time plucking feathers as I spent processing chickens. Below, you can see the first bird (the one killed with the .22) as it reached me.
I take off the heads and feet, cut out the oil gland on the tail, remove the windpipe and esophagus (and crop, filled with grain because they ate this morning), cut off the neck, and then open up the bird and remove the innards. Being very careful to watch the vent to make sure no "femat" (fecal material) comes out with the extra pressure on the colon, very careful not to burst the gallbladder, and especially making sure not to puncture the intestines.
For those who know that I fainted when I lost a tooth, the fact that I can write so factually about blood and guts is almost miraculous. (I took a photo of the bucket when I was done, but it's pretty nasty, so be thankful I don't post EVERYTHING).
Nevertheless, we both really dislike such work. It's smelly, it's a bit depressing, it's physically demanding. I'm extremely thankful we don't need to do it every day.
There were some surprises for me, having just done three batches of eight week old meat birds in the past. First, on opening the body cavity, the color of fat (and the quantity!) was surprising: so yellow!
I'm assuming that's from all the bugs and grass these birds ate as they grew up, unlike the lazy Cornish Cross that do little but sit and eat.
The membranes, too, seemed a bit different; the length of the neck a bit different; the size of the birds overall: much smaller; the quantity of popular white meat: almost nil. The Cornish Cross, having seen the alternative, are really the ideal meat bird: easy to process (some birds had such tough tendons on their feet I could hardly get them off!), fast growing, very meaty. Not very natural (since they cannot breed, but must have chicken AI), but still: they provide a lot of chicken for a comparatively low cost.
As I reached into one especially fatty bird, I was amazed to find my hand covered in what appeared to be egg yolk. We've had about one egg a day lately from the penned birds (so one out of 25 is laying consistently), and I had found that one. Too bad, like the goose that laid the golden eggs, in order to discover which chickens are productive, they have to die. Too bad the rest were so lazy.
Anyway, I was amazed to find a few gelatinous eggs still intact. How these egg yolk sized orbs become hard-shelled, yolk and white eggs is a miracle, I think.
The last chicken I did today also had eggs in it, so maybe the two birds had traded days. I think one egg was ready to be laid tomorrow: notice the one that is larger and whiter.
We finished processing after 17 birds: Phil had lost feeling in his toes. I, thankfully, had chosen to work in the motor home today. Despite the promise of weather in the 50s early on, the temperature dropped quickly, and was in the low 40s when Phil started his plucking, dropping several more degrees before he was finished. By the time I had finished my 17th bird, it was time to milk.
Dear Bianca today returned to her 11+ pounds of milk. I am so grateful. She is a good, good cow. I realized recently that she probably kicked so much in the beginning because I pressed my head into her flank, to see if she was going to kick. So she did. I try not to touch her, except her udder, and I don't speak to her while milking (though I praise her before and after), and I think she prefers that. I am very other, after all.
The boys, happily, played all day. Several hours were spent, surprisingly, with the Duplos. The older boys made this "Man with a Top Hat," and felt quite proud.
It is so, so nice to have Phil back to farm work.
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