Just Another Day on the Zimmerman Homestead

Last Sunday I had a chance to see just what I was getting into on my little homestead in the city. Did I mention I have chickens? Yes, I have had about 8 chicks around here in the last couple of months. It turned out that I kept 4 of them. As these four chicks have grown, lots of debates have ensued about the gender of these chickens. You see, I am a member of the SECRET URBAN CHICKEN SOCIETY. Technically speaking, I am not allowed to have chickens. This is a covert operation. I can't afford to have any crowing roosters blow my cover. I knew there were 2 of them. They sparred and bossed the poor hens around, and although they were entertaining, I knew they had to go- and soon. John wanted to keep them and feed them up for dinner. But I knew we couldn't keep them that long. I happened to mention my dilemma to my friend Gemma, who's mother keeps chickens. She offered to take the roosters off of my hands and find homes for them or keep them. How nice! Their fate had been tossed around with some not so nice ideas...having to do with dogs and coyotes. So, I thought it was great that they were being given the chance to live a happy life.

Well, soon came the next morning as my roosters tried to crow a high-pitched, teenage crow, one after the other. I was going out of town, but knew that they would have to go immediately the next day. When I got home that night I told John about our crowing teens. I told him I would take them to Gemma's moms the day.

Sunday was a beautiful morning. John and the kids and I had our traditional weekend waffle breakfast and then headed out back in our pajamas to do some chores and play around. John was helping me feed the chickens and let them out to roam. I got the big box down to put the roosters in so I could transport them without chasing them all over the yard. They got away from John, or so I thought. And as I turned around to see him using a rake to catch one, I readied the box thinking, jeez, I hope he doesn't hurt the poor thing. When I turned back around, John has his back to me and his hands are twisting in an unmistakable fashion.

I stood there, shocked for a minute. I mean, granted, my husband grew up on a ranch. I have watched him butcher sheep, cows, chickens, and hunt for venison and pheasants for our food. However, it was a little different to watch my husband butcher a chicken in his pjs in the small backyard of our suburban home.

He turned around and said, "What? (I must have had a look on my face) It's okay, right? I thought we might as well eat them."
"Uhh- yah, no that's fine....I just can't believe you did that so nonchalantly...in our backyard."
He gave me a goofy look and walked to the trash can with the limp chicken hanging by it's feet.

I hurried in to get Ava. I mean, now this was a lesson on where our food comes from. That's part of why I am doing this whole homestead thing, right? So, I explained that daddy had killed the roosters for food and that he was butchering them if she wanted to see. I warned her that there was blood. She was excited to see what it was all about. I first showed her the frozen chicken breasts in our freezer, then we walked outside and John showed her how they get them. He skinned and gutted the chicken, showing Ava the intestines, heart, liver, ect. She watched in great curiosity and even asked questions.

We took the breastbones into the house and John showed me how to get the rest of the insides out and rinse the chickens. I was a little squeemish at first, but this is what I wanted...a little homesteading...so I followed through. That night we barbecued Ricky and Gonner (aptly named by Ava). And I must say, they tasted rather good!