Processing chickens is a dirty job, no question, but Jake and I and a couple of friends knocked out another batch of seventy farm fresh, pasture raised meat birds this morning and, boy, was it a blast (not). Seriously (just kidding). So much fun (I am lying to you). I could do it all day (I will stop this now).
As I worked, I was reminded of the last time Jake and I processed birds. I was totally engrossed in sloughing and slicing, gutting and bagging, when behind me Jake — the designated executioner — let out a blood curdling scream. I have never heard a sound like this come out of my husband’s mouth before or since. It was as if he’d just been dipped in boiling oil or had his fingernails plucked out.
I whipped around. “What? What is it? Are you okay?”
“My eye!” he wailed. “My eye!”
“Ohmigod, did you cut yourself??” I dropped my knife and ran toward the house. “I’ll call the ambulance!”
“No! I don’t need an ambulance! My eye!”
“Damn bird shot crap in my eye!”
One of the hazards of butchering chickens is that sometimes when the throat is slit, the birds lose control of their faculties…the wings beat, the feet rattle and shake, strange noises erupt, and in this case, a hot jet of chicken poop blasted straight into Jake’s eye, causing his wife to roll on the ground with laughter. (Yet we still elect to eat chicken. Why is this?)
I was reminded of the poop eye incident this morning when Jordan, today’s executioner, plopped down on one of the coolers and started rubbing his eye. “Got some kind of irritant in my eye,” he said.
Jake and I looked at each other and smirked.