That Time We Had A Barn Animal For Dinner
In early March, my husband decided I was bored (!!) and came home with another 6 baby chickens (otherwise known as chicks) for a total of a Delightful Dozen. Now our life is complete.
Don’t get me wrong — chickens are a little more difficult to take care of than stuffed animals. But when you add tiny chickens to the already booming Petting Zoo we own, it’s a bit much.
But these chickens are different, my husband says. The fuzzy little yellow chicks that are so utterly adorable?
We’re going to eat them.
That’s right, folks, the Rowlands Family has entered new territory – MEAT FARMERS.
Gross. I did not sign up for this. Every animal on this farm is a pet, in my opinion. It’s very sad when animals die, so I cannot condone killing them.
I mean, come on — look how adorable this small child is, loving her tiny chick.
It’s too difficult to think about these adorable little buggers as a meal anytime soon, so let’s ignore that for several months. In the meantime, they live in two large Rubbermaid containers in the barn. There are 4 new grey chickens and 2 white chickens.
As the weeks go by, these guys get bigger and bigger. They no longer fit in the Rubbermaid containers. Specifically, the 2 white chickens are growing exponentially. (“They’re going to be delicious!” my husband taunts.)
For their safety from the nasty, older chickens, I create a comfy little space for them near the piggies. They get along splendidly with each other and are happy.
But the white chickens turn out to be little bitches, actually. One pecks my foot until it bleeds! So Grady names that one “Lovett” after Mrs. Lovett, the crazy gal in “Sweeney Todd” who chops up bodies and cooks them into pies.
Though it’s an excellent and fitting name, Grady, let’s not name these guys, OK? It’s giving us false hope that they won’t end up on the dinner table.
Grady does not heed my advice and goes ahead and names the other, nicer chicken “Lavender.” “She’s really nice,” Grady says.
Oh boy.
After a few months, we decide the “new” chickens are big enough to be incorporated into the coop with the rest of the chickens. It’s sort of a Sharks and Jets situation at first, complete with finger-snapping, culturally significant costumes, combative dancing, and brilliant Sondheim lyrics….
…Wait, what are we talking about?
Oh yes – chickens. Sorry.
All chickens eventually stop pecking each other (Did you know that chickens can easily become cannibalistic if they smell blood? CHRIST, they’re monsters.) and live agreeably with one another, though I’m sure sometimes I hear “When you’re a Jet…” at night when the coop is dark…
I watch Lavender and Lovett waddle around the pen. They’re like fat-ass pillows with legs. Like penguins, but dumber-looking, somehow.
This isn’t our video, but observe:
Told ya.
Anywho, Lavender catches my attention one day because she appears to be wheezing as she runs. This makes me sad because I realize this gal doesn’t have asthma; she’s like me – way too fat to live, and shouldn’t be running or moving at all without a sports bra.
We do some research and some math and discover that Lavender and Lovett should have been slaughtered weeks ago. They have a very short life span, and keeping them alive is basically killing them slowly, and I don’t want the other animals to start gossiping about how The Rowlands Farm is where animals go to die. (Although the rabbits do have something to say about that…)
My husband announces that he’s totally cool with slitting the chickens’ throats on his own, but it’s the butchering he doesn’t know how to do. (Not sure I believe this; I think he’s a softy but won’t admit it.) So we decide to take the white chickens to the butcher. We find one just up the road that’s super cheap ($4.50 per chicken!).
So the kids say goodbye to the monstrous Lavender and Lovett, and we drop off the chickens.
(Sidebar: It’s amusing to note that the night before the chickens were brought to the butcher, Chris dislocated his shoulder three times, then spent hours in the ER. And he still got up at 8 am to go to the butcher. That spells Certified Farmer, methinks.)
The farmers come back from the butcher with good news – we now have a 9-pound whole chicken and an 11-pound whole chicken.
In other words, DINNER.
A few weeks later, the house smells like Thanksgiving. Potatoes are boiling. A box of Stovetop Stuffing is next to the stove. Yellow corn is warming up.
The oven is on….
We set the table, we pour drinks, we gather in the dining room.
The oven is open…
“Sarah, you wanna try the skin? I know you love the skin.”
I cannot do. I will not do it. I will not eat our pet.
We sit down to dinner and the children have a field day:
“Smells delicious!”
“Look at that meat!”
“Can’t wait to eat this chicken!”
And even though there are mashed potatoes and gravy on the table, I am nearly gagging because it feels like we’re serving dog for dinner.
“YOU GUYS,” I plead. “Come on, isn’t this just wrong? Don’t we feel terrible? This is LAVENDER. WE’RE EATING OUR PET.”
Little 4-year-old Perry shoves meat into her god-awful mouth. “Lavender is delicious!” she exclaims.
Grady, the guy who named the damned chickens, asks for more. “I thought it would be weird, but it’s not.”
I look to Gretta. At least she’s gagging with me.
“Come on, let’s cheers!” Chris says. We all fork a little Lavender and hold up the silverware. “To being real farmers!” We “cheers” with our meat. We cheers Lavender.
And that’s how it happened. That’s how we ate our pet.
And that’s how I became a vegetarian.
(Just kidding. Meat is delicious.)
R.I.P. Lavender and Lovett
-2 Comments-
Let me know when you guys serve up some Walter – I bet he’d be even more delicious than Lavender!
You’re the devil.