The processing of chickens

Last weekend I had to decline an invitation to an off-island birthday party, due to the impending "harvest" of our meat chickens. Yes, that is a euphemism for slaughter, and yes, I stole the term from Barbara Kingsolver's book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. It's just a nicer word, though, isn't it? And it really is similar to harvesting veggies in many ways. Aside from, you know, the blood and stuff. Anyway, my mainland friend bestowed upon me the Most Unusual Excuse Award, and is looking forward to a visit to the farm in the near future. Although, I suspect she's happy to have the chicken harvest over and done with before she arrives.

Which leads us to the real question at hand: why the heck did I want to be a part of this so-called "chicken harvest"? Okay, so I didn't exactly do the deed myself. We arranged for the Mobile Poultry Processing Unit (MPPU) to come by and handle things for us. I know many people prefer not to think about the journey their meat has taken before they come across it, neatly shrink-wrapped in their local market, so I'll spare you the most gruesome details. But I have to say, the details weren't really all that gruesome. I was present through the whole process, as were my kids, and even my mother-in-law -who likes to think that big steaks start out as baby steaks, born in the back room of the supermarket. Not one of us was traumatized, or even grossed out. The MPPU crew members have done this so many times, that the "moment of truth" is quick, and free from the chaos and drama traditionally associated with chicken beheading. In a matter of minutes, the birds were being shrink-wrapped in their own neat packages, worthy of any supermarket meat case.

In all fairness, I very well could have attended the party, for all the work I did (read: didn't do) in preparing for, carrying out, and cleaning up after the harvest. But at least I was there. Is it weird that I wanted to be there? Sometimes I get the feeling people think we're a little weird. I suppose we are. But even if I'm too much of a chicken (sorry, I couldn't resist) to actually do the harvesting myself, I want to be there, expressing my gratitude on some level. Showing respect, I guess.

Yup, I sound like a freak. I guess I haven't figured it all out yet. There are a lot of grey areas for me, having come into this farming thing as adult, and only a few years ago at that. I just know that I'd rather eat an animal that has had a happy life, whether it was on my farm or running around in the Chilmark woods or flying over the plains of North Dakota, than one produced in a factory farm. And if some part of that animal's life (or death) is too gory or disgusting or upsetting for me to witness, well, maybe I shouldn't be eating it.