Recently I posted about having too many roosters. Today I wanted to elaborate a bit on that part between having too many roosters and new package’s in the freezer.
Bare with me it won’t be as bad as it sounds.
…it was time for all the roosters to go.
And so, in an activity not usually reserved for Easter weekend, John and I butchered the extra roosters while the girls watched. The kids said goodbye to the pretty ones and pointed out the mean one that should go first. They drifted in and out, asked questions, refused my offer to share in the plucking and before it was all cleaned up they even learned a bit about hearts and intestines, lungs and gizzards.
We have been butchering our own chickens (and deer and an occasional turkey, duck or lamb) ourselves for their entire lives and so I didn’t have any concerns with the older girls, they’d been through this all before. But this was Jane’s first chicken butchering experience that she was old enough to really take in so I kept a bit of a closer watch on her. Perched on a stool through much of the process she gave a few birds one last pet before I handed them off to John and his axe. She asked a few questions, played with a few feathers and eventually left to play with Ivy who had declared the whole process, “Boring.” Perhaps it was because she was introduced to the scene at the tender age of two or perhaps it was because the rest of the family was unfazed but Jane seemed to take it all in stride.
A few nights later Jane was having a bit of trouble settling down to sleep. And by that I mean she was popping out of bed like a Jack-in-the-box every 45 seconds with a new ridiculous request. Having exhausted my entire line up of lets-go-to-sleep-now tricks I tried to give her a little pep talk about everyone who was sleeping.Your sisters are sleeping, the dogs are sleeping, the cats are sleeping…
Me: “…The chickens are sleeping, they are good chickens. I said “night ladies” and closed the door and they aren’t going to get up they are just going to sleep in their coop all night.” (Yes, I know, look who’s being ridiculous now. It was ridiculous sounding and ridiculous to think it would work – which it didn’t. Clearly I was desperate!)
Jane: “Then why Dad knock them?” (I’m sure you can see where this is going but it took me a bit.)
Me: “Knock them?”
Jane: “Yeah, why Dad knock them?”
Me: “What do you mean?” (A long day, it had been a very long day.)
Jane: “On the table with a knife.”
Me: “Ooooohhhhh! When Dad killed the roosters?”(Now that I’ve finally caught on I’ve immediately started to worry that perhaps she was not as okay with the process as I thought.)
Me: “They were naughty roosters.”(I’m still grasping at straws as well as panicking thinking that not only have I traumatized her with chicken butchering but now she’s never going to go to sleep! What have I done?!?)
Jane: “Cause they were peckin’ me?”
Jane: “Those naughty roosters soup?”
Me: “You got it!”
Jane: “Okay.” (Phew!)
Jane happy with her answer curled up under her blankets and stayed there for three minutes before she came downstairs with a new problem.
I’m starting to despair that my two year old will ever learn to stay in her bed and go to sleep but I’m proud to say she knows just where her soup comes from.