To Absalom’s legs, that is. The ones with the spurs on them.

Absalom met his Maker on Saturday morning. Here’s the fixin’s for rooster soup, just before Jessica bagged them to put in the freezer:

It was not a pleasant end. I’m really sorry, Absalom, but I didn’t know what I was doing. By the time I was finished skinning him and the four Mallard hens I was much more comfortable with what to do and how to do it, but Absalom was first.

No gory details (sorry if you think that picture’s gross, but that’s what skinned chicken looks like anyway), but I do think it’s a good thing to see—not just know—where the meat comes from. I don’t know that it’s healthy to be too removed from the creation of what we eat. I remember my dad saying his mother used to send him out to the hen house to bring back a chicken for Sunday dinner. That’s the way it was, folks, for most of earth’s history.

I know ‘bout fruits and veggies, I know ‘bout milk and eggies, but meat—that’s a different story. I didn’t want to go through the hassle of boiling water and plucking feathers, so I just skinned them out and sent them up to Jessica at the house. She cut the meat off and threw it in the freezer. I started a fire outside to burn the feathers and other things (just to keep wild animals away from the site) and it burned for six hours. There’s a lot of fat in there since the animals were trying to keep warm.

Why did I butcher the mallard hens as well? They weren’t producing any more—they really haven’t done much since last spring. They just eat the duck food, which costs money, and make messes, which we have to clean up. For the money and labor we expend on them I’d like to be getting something in return.

I guess not too many chickens (or ducks) die of old age on the farm.

And death? That’s part of life.