I've been talking about ending the lives of our hens for at least a year. They were quite old, as laying birds go. We had 5- of those, 4 of them were almost four years old, 1 was 2 1/2. Last Friday, we finally did the deed.
A little chicken info:
Laying hens typically start laying eggs when they're 4 months old or so (provided it's not the middle of winter). From then they usually lay one egg a day for their first year or so, until winter comes (less light means no eggs, unless you provide artificial light, as they do in factory-farmed chickens) or until their first moult. During moult, the bird loses much of its feathers and doesn't lay during that time. When their feathers grow back, they lay less often. For us, that meant we received maybe 3-5 eggs a week from the older birds.
One of our chickens never laid, but we kept her around because she was sweet (this is not acceptable chicken farmer behavior!). In fall of 2009, we added the two Black Australorps, who were pullets at the time (chicken teenagers, ready to lay). They were quite productive for some time. Well, that is until a crazy dog broke into our yard and mangled one, making it so my husband had to finish her off in a snowy compassion killing.
It seemed the older girls went through two, if not three moults, and over this past summer, we were getting one egg a day from five chickens (!), that egg coming from the remaining two year old Black Australorp. All summer and fall we fed them. Letting them out in the morning, locking them in their coop each night. A habit, I'm finding now that they're gone, as ingrained in me as brushing my teeth before bed or seeking the press pot for coffee each morning.
Part of putting it off for so long was me trying to get over just killing them ourselves. Greg has processed dozens of chickens (we've done meat birds a few years in a row. The first time, he processed them. The next year we put them in a dog cage and took them to be processed.). I'm still squeamish, which given my profession, seems silly. But during birth, blood is in a totally different context, and I can recognize normal and what is not normal in that scenario. Ending a life, even that of a chicken was just too much for me. If I had to, if my kids were so hungry that I needed to do so to feed them, of course I could do it. That not being the case, I finally ended up deciding to take them into be processed at a mere $2.25 a piece. Drop them off in the morning, pick them up in the afternoon, each wrapped in their own plastic bag to be tucked into the chest freezer.
I was interested to see what shape these birds would be in once they free of feathers. Greg made me laugh saying once they scalded the feathers off, they'd be shocked to find that they were suddenly holding an old brown football. When one raises meat birds, those chickens are usually killed at 6-8 weeks of age. They eat like gluttons and grow huge very rapidly (this is how they've been bred). Our laying hens were four years old! Would they be tough as old footballs?
Yesterday we ate one for dinner and it was pretty darn good. Granted, I first slow cooked her for 12+ hours before taking all the meat off that I could. (Such a tiny chicken! Maybe only 2-3 pounds? I forgot to weigh her.) Then I slow cooked the meat in a home made bbq sauce for another 4-5 hours. We ate pulled chicken last night, with Parker rolls and coleslaw and frozen summer corn. It was quite the July dinner in December- and very, very good.
After cutting off all the meat I could from the chicken, I then boiled the carcass in a large pot for stock.
Eating dinner last night, I was definitely filled with gratitude for all those chickens have given us. Years of eggs, then the meat, and finally very rich and delicious stock which will continue to feed us. Amazing. And totally worth the feed and the rituals created by keeping chickens.
If you see me walking over the frozen grass of our backyard in the early morning, only to see me abruptly stop, shake my head and walk back into the house, you'll know I'm still working out my habits of the past few years.
In the Spring, we'll start all over again.
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