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!”
“What happened?”
“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.
{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
Ha! That’s some aim for a dead chicken!
I swear this sort of thing is why I’ll never get laser eye surgery. My glasses have acted as impromptu safety goggles on SO many occasions.
PLEASE, wear safety goggles when there is any danger of getting something in your eyes! Even just for yard work, I always wear a pair of really big sunglasses to protect myself from flying grass bits.
OK. “was it a blast” reminded me of a Little Johnny story.
You know Little Johnny. Little Johnnie is the nice boy in class that the teacher is always wary anytime he opens his mouth, some of the words he uses in elementary school aren’t permitted in the bar downtown.
So one morning Little Johnny gets to class quite late. This isn’t particularly unusual for Little Johnny, but beings as it is Little Johnny, the teacher braces herself before asking why the late arrival.
And Little Johnny replies, “Sorry Ma’am. I am late because Dad don’t wear no britches to sleep in.” Warily the teacher asks how that would make Little Johnny late for class.
“Ma’am, ” Little Johnny starts, “a darn fox has been at the chickens in the chicken house four nights in the last week. Well, last night Dad heard a commotion in the chicken house, and grabbed and loaded his scatter gun. He eased out the door, and got down and crept up on the chicken coop, quiet as could be. Well, Zeke, our hunting dog, wandered over to see what Dad was up to. Dad was just drawing a bead on that fox in the chicken coop, when Zeke stuck his cold nose where Dad’s britches should have covered him.
“Ma’am, we’ve been cleaning chickens since 4 AM!”
You are a funny one, Jessie Knadler! Always making me laugh!
I just laughed so hard I snorted.
Ooohhhh, the farm fresh chicken is gonna taste soooo good!
The Little Johnny story made me giggle out loud.