From Farm to Freezer….And Other Things I Never Expected

**WARNING** The following has graphic images and content. Viewers may feel the need to suddenly become vegan. Viewer discretion is strongly advised**

The term “farm to table” sounds lovely. It evokes beautiful images of wide open fields, long tables dressed with linen tablecloths and lined with candles while white lights twinkle above. Dinner is divine. Everything is served fresh from the farm and shared generously with the guests. Photos are taken, Instagram viewers quickly hit “love” and the world embraces the perceived perfection of a perfect moment. The “farm to freezer” story is not quite that same story. Life is messy.

The first chapter of the farm is the arrival of the chickens. I never thought about how chickens arrived at a farm. I thought they were just there. They actually arrive by mail. I kid you not. We ordered 48 chickens in February and in mid May, I get a phone call from the post office telling me my “chicks” have arrived. So very, very weird.

For the first month, the baby chicks live in a tupperware bin in the house next to the wood fire. During those early weeks, the chicks feel as though they are on vacation in Palm Springs. The heat lamp keeps the temperature at a happy 95 degrees and they have access to food and drink 24 hours a day. Life is good!

The second month is weaning them off the holiday hangover and they move to the chicken coop. We have lost a few during this stage. Not all chickens are created equal and sometimes there is bullying. No pink t-shirts on this farm. The strong survive and the weak are fed to the pigs. I know. I understand the foundation to becoming vegetarian.

Fast forward to mid July. Cute and cuddly chicks grow to be 8 to 12 pounds of big and stinky. We start to make room in the freezer.

The path to the freezer takes a day and you have to start early. It’s best to work with another family who is also “butchering”. “Butchering” is farm language for killing. It sounds nicer. More refined and less brutish than Death Day or D-Day.

We join with three other families. The goal is to get 140 chickens into the freezer by the end of the day. I never wear white pants.

I have been surprised by many things in my life. Living in a small town, having children and now I can add chicken catching to the list. Catching chickens is the first phase of “gross” in a day that is filled with many “gross” things. Fortunately, they are fat and can’t run terribly fast but you have to catch them by the feet and turn them upside down.

Let’s break that down for a minute, shall we? I take my nicely moisturized hands that might have seen a few manicures and have to grab a long, bony chicken leg with the three ugly pokey toes that scratch when I don’t get a firm grip. It feels cold and scaly to the touch and I fight the feelings of being repulsed. They don’t go quietly and they are heavy. They flap their wings hard and fast against my thighs. Holiday time just ended and I am sure they feel that they are being unjustly evicted. That’s kind of true.

Once they are loaded into the trailer, they are taken to “hospice” where they meet the others who are near death. It’s kind of sad. I imagine the conversations in the trailer. “Mavis, are you sure this a bus tour? Where is the buffet? I haven’t eaten a thing since yesterday!”. It’s true, they aren’t fed for 24 hours before “D” Day and that’s because it’s super yucky gutting a chicken that has food in their system. But more on that later.

While people have been loading chickens, others have been preparing the kill zone. Everyone has a job. My job in addition to chasing chickens is to help prepare lunch. I generally choose salads. Actually, I choose anything but chicken. That would be bad and in poor taste.

Once everyone is ready, the process starts. This year, my husband handled the axe. Normally my son does this but he was promoted to feather plucker. Chickens are “butchered”, drained of blood and then dunked in hot water to loosen the feathers. The bird is then moved to the electric plucker and eventually ends up on the gutting table.

At this point, I will understand moving from vegetarian thoughts to considering life as a vegan.

Since you are still reading, I am assuming that you are either contemplating becoming a farmer yourself and are genuinely interested or you have a morbid fascination of what comes next.

The first time I was part of Death Day, I almost threw up. Here were people who I liked and admired telling me how to cut open the arse of a chicken so the space is large enough for me to get my hand in there to pull out the heart, lungs and other organs. By the way, since the chickens had just been killed, the insides were still warm.

Although I had not yet adopted the bumper sticker “I can do hard things”, I would rank this first day of death as doing something hard. I followed the directions of my friends and made the cut. I had been told that you have to reach in high and you just grab all the insides and pull it out. I took a deep breath and reached in, grabbed what I could and then the chicken SQUAWKED! OMG – IT WAS STILL ALIVE! I screamed, dropped the knife and ran outside, likely with my hands waving wildly in the air. This was not one of my finer moments. This was a moment that no one will ever let me forget. EVER.

My “friends” found this moment hilarious. I don’t share that sentiment. I really thought my hand was inside a chicken that had somehow come back to life. I didn’t know that you could squeeze the voice box of a dead chicken and it would squawk. This is a farmer party trick. They think they are hilarious. I suggest they don’t give up their day job just yet.

After the laughter subsided, I had to come back to the chicken table to finish the gutting. Much to my horror, I had nicked the “crop”. This is the part of the chicken where they hold their food before it gets digested. Once nicked, brown icky stuff oozes out. I think I will just leave it at that.

What I will leave you with is a photo of my handiwork. Take this and multiply doing it about 30 times in one day. Gross.

If you are still with me after the photos, I am also leaving you with two videos. The first is one I call, “The End”. The axe might give it away. The second video is the plucker in action. I often wonder if it could double as weight loss machine that could pummel away my middle. Something to think about…..

Once all is said and dead, the day is done. We clean up, shower down and fill the freezers. For those that wonder when we eat our first chicken…..it’s not that first night for sure. It takes time for the smell of chicken guts to leave the senses and get out from under the finger nails. The upside to all this is when the chicken does hit the table, it feels fresh from the farm and is pretty delicious.

I never expected to raise chickens and I have no idea what to expect when we “butcher” the pigs but life is filled with unexpected moments. Some are amazing and others make our heart break. COVID19 is something that makes my heart break. I feel like I have been riding a roller coaster with a drink in one hand and kleenex in the other. Some days I ride downhill and scream for my life while other days, the wind is ripping through my hair, my hands are in the air and I am elated to feel so free.

It’s a wave of emotions that I never expected. For many weeks, I have been feeling awesome and strong and confident and then BAM! I am a hot mess of tears and fears and feel like Mavis on the bus tour and have no idea of what is yet to come.

There is a fabulous movie called “Auntie Mame”. It’s brilliant. My favourite line in the movie is where Mame flamboyantly exclaims “life is a banquet and most poor fools are starving to death”. I think she’s right. When I lament, I lose sight of the adventure and the inherent goodness that surrounds me. That includes moments and the many people that open their hearts to hear me.

So…..If you are ever in the neighborhood, please know that you are welcome. My freezer is full and the table is set.

Here’s to the joys of the unexpected, even when it’s hard and maybe a bit messy with a splash of “gross”.

With love,

Shelley