It was a tough day for my eldest son
when he found out the grim truth about chickens. He was five or six. But he was
a sensitive kid and the news hit him pretty hard.
I was a single parent and a man, so
take-out food figured prominently in our diet. We were sitting down to a dinner
in which the image of a southern colonel figured prominently. That’s when I
made the mistake of saying, “Oh, boy! Chickee buck buck!”
Now, chickee buck buck is what Jordan
called all live chickens. Being a city boy, like his old man, he’d only seen a
few.
“Chickee buck buck?” he said. “Like
the bird?”
“Sure,” I said, not really
understanding the note of horror in his voice.
“This cooked chicken is, like, from a chicken?”
he said.
“Well, yeah,” I said. “Where’d you
think chicken comes from?”
I never forgot his reply: “I thought
it came from a factory,” he said. “Like pizza.”
The notion that he was eating a cute,
little (previously) feathered idiot put a large dent in Jordan’s appetite that
night. My daughter, Aubreii – considerably more pragmatic than her brother and
immune to the plight of domesticated fowl – was happy to partake of his
seconds.
At the time it seemed just another
amusing anecdote, one more episode in the ongoing weirdness that is parenthood.
But lately, 30-odd years later, it has again been on my mind.
I’m sure it’s because of the birds
now living in my back yard and – if I turn my back for ten seconds and leave a
door open – in my garage, living room, kitchen and so on. There are eight of
them. Because The Lovely Mrs. Taylor decided we should raise chickens.
They’re not laying eggs yet, but they
almost certainly will at some point. And I’ll admit it’s fun to be a chicken farmer.
Or rancher. Whatever chicken people are called.
The problem is, I was – as previously
mentioned – raised in the city. I don’t have a farmer’s mentality. Farm kids
grow up thinking of chickens (and bunnies, goats, cows, etc.) as food, rather
than pets. I know this because I recently bought a couple rabbits from the kids
down the dirt road and they offered to give me the name of a guy who would
“process” them for me.
I wasn’t aware rabbits needed to
apply for citizenship or a driver’s license and said so, which the kids found
amusing. But I’m not going to eat them. I’m going to pet them and squeeze them
and call them George. They will never be processed.
That goes for the chickens as well.
They’re egg factories, period. When, in the fullness of time they depart this
mortal coil, they’ll be buried with all the honors afforded our dead cats and
dogs up on Pet Cemetery Hill on the east side of the property. It will be a
solemn occasion marked by bagpipe music and that verse from Ecclesiastes about
ashes and dust.
I sure as hell won’t be eating them.
But see, that’s the problem. When
Mrs. T first brought the chicks home, they were just mindless, little bundles
of fluff. It took a few weeks, but they grew into ugly bundles of feathers and
gawky beaks. Now, at last, they’re starting to look like proper chickens.
But they’re also developing personalities. This is the part I didn’t
expect. I mean, they’re like cats or dogs, man! Some are friendly, some are
stand-offish. Some walk up to me and peck my sneakers until I pick them up and
pet them. They’re … aware.
I’ve begun to see them not only as a
food source, but – like my son of 30 years past – as individuals, with minds of
their own. Granted, those minds are the size of a walnut and for the most part
almost as smart, but still, they think.
Problem is, I love chicken. Deep fried, I mean. Add some ‘taters and coleslaw,
baby, and I am in gastronomical heaven!
Ditto steak, seafood, and bacon. Or,
as they’re known prior to the abattoir, cows, fish and pigs. There’s just no
way I’m going to become a vegetarian over some city boy crises of conscience
here.
In the future, I won’t be eating my chickens, but I will be eating
chicken. I guess I’ll just have to find a way to choke down a heapin’ helping
of guilt with every meal.
After 30 years, I think I finally
understand my son’s horror.
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