The English House

Warning: Don't read this entry if you're squeamish.

This past Wednesday several Peace Corps trainees went to Patrick's host family's (the English's) farm to learn about raising chickens: specifically how to slaughter them. I was really excited to have this opportunity because I think that if you're going to eat meat you should be comfortable with killing the animals yourself. Three little girls (Patrick's host sisters) ran out to meet us followed cooly by Patrick who led us behind the house.


We stopped on the way to see the English family's dog and her litter of five puppies. They still had their eyes closed and their little limbs were only barely able to help them balance as they wriggled around on their tummies.

We continued back to where Ricky had brought out the first three chickens, handing one of them to me to hold. The English family gets around 30 new chicks every 4 weeks. After eight weeks they're ready to eat. The first chicken was totally unsuspecting as Ricky adeptly folded its wings behind it into the bag, bent its neck over the edge and sliced the head off. I jumped a little as the bird's body started flapping around, turning the bag crimson. That's all there is to it. Patrick was next, followed by Sammi. 3, 4, 5 chicken heads lay on the ground blinking at their spastic bodies. The chicken I was holding seemed to cluck more frantically with each new head. I'll wait for the next round to try.
After the chickens were killed we dipped the bodies in boiling water t make it easier to remove the feathers. Once the feathers are plucked and the skin on the feet removed, the chicken is washed and ready to be cleaned. Grandma showed me how to cut the bottom of the chicken, which organs to save (the liver, the heart, and the gizzard), and which parts of the feet are good for chicken foot soup. Now all I had to do is kill one and then I would know the process from start to finish.

Sammi and I followed Ricky to the side of the house where we each grabbed a chicken by the wings. Sammi brought her chicken to the bag after Ricky. I turned my chicken the other way, telling her she didn't have to watch. I could feel the chicken's pulse speeding up and my pulse speeding up to match it. The largest thing I had killed before this was a butterfly, and that was an accident. I don't know if the chicken had stolen a glance at its sisters or if it was picking up on my nervousness but this chicken was squawking worse than the last one. Ricky helped me tuck her into the bag and her eyes closed as if in resignation. I felt pressure on the knife, and then a wave of emotion washed over me. I started to cry. I couldn't really say what the emotion was. I think it deserves its own name, but it was probably closest to gratitude and a deep appreciation for life. It suddenly made sense to me why some Native Americans thanked the animal's spirit after killing it. The juxtaposition of the newborn puppies in the front of the house and the chickens in the back probably contributed as well. As I walked home I thought about how much better it was that these chickens could be killed and prepared with care rather than the metallic clutches of a machine. It is so valuable to realize that the food which sustains your life was at one point alive itself.