A Tale of Two Roosters: Part Three, Le Morte D'Floki.

A Tale of Two Roosters: Part Three, Le Morte D’Floki

Disclaimer 1

Today’s post will be a recollection of the ultimate fate of Floki. Although it is centered around my feeling of the whole affair and thus not replete with gory detail, for purposes of the narrative I will have to include a few details. For those with sensitive constitutions I recommend you skip this one and wait for more upbeat posts to come in the near future.

Disclaimer 2

This is also not any sort of ‘how to’ blog. There are many sources on the net, in books, esteemed neighbors, experts in the field et. cetera. If you are here to learn HOW to properly dispatch and butcher a rooster my ultimate advice is do NOT take advice from some kook on the interwebs just because he writes a blog!

If you had been reading along lo these past several months, particularly the last several updates, you will understand that I take no decision lightly where my chickens are concerned. You may, by this point understand that I am a sensitive person and the following update was not only a very difficult one to experience, but even a difficult one to write about. Before I get into the details, I feel I must share a little more about my emotional/spiritual views on such matters. Please understand that the views belong to my wife and I and there is no expectation that any one else must believe the things we do, nor any admonition toward those that believe differently.

So here it is … imperfectly explained.

To me … all life is sacred. ALL life. Not some life, not all lives, but some are more sacred than others, ALL life. And yet, the very act of living and feeding yourself is also the end of life. Life given and life sustained. Perhaps it is a cruel system, but it is the one that we’ve got.

The carrot, the potato, the deer, the cow, even the mosquito. All sacred. All has its place, purpose, and destiny to live that life as fully as possible. Although, admittedly, in my weaker moments, I am inclined to kill a mosquito that has violated my person, and believe it or not, often give pause to the ramifications of the act.

This sacrifice of life to sustain life is a sacred circle that, like it or not, we all are a part of. Even the act of breathing, getting out of bed, brushing your teeth in the morning, can lead to the life and death of untold numbers of microorganisms.

And yet, life is not to be wasted foolishly. It is to be treated with great respect in all of its forms. You must sustain yourself, so nurturing the carrot to grow only to kill it for your table is sacred. Hunting the deer, using every part possible, so that you and yours may thrive is a sacred act.

Wasting life needlessly is an abomination. Pulling the potato out of the ground only to toss it in the trash uneaten is a waste of a life. Slaughtering an animal only for a trophy while the carcass is left unused is an abomination.

I often feel … and remember, this is merely the view of one kook on the internet … that many have become so used to buying a neat little package from the grocery store that many of us have been disconnected from this circle emotionally. We don’t give much thought to what is lost and what is given in order for you and your family to thrive. I am of the mind that every person … once … at least once … should grow and/or forage something edible to understand the sacrifice of life. I am of the mind that every person … at least once … should hunt or raise an animal for the table to remember the connection we have with the circle.

My wife and I decided to raise chickens primarily for the eggs, but we were not so foolish as to think a time like this might never come and we did prepare ourselves for this possible eventuality. Although it would have been easier to give our troublesome rooster to someone else to enact his sentence, we felt the responsibility of the act was ours to bear alone. We raised him, we loved him, we gave him the best home possible, and if we were to be the ones to pass judgment upon him it was only right that we needed to be the ones that enacted that outcome.

It was a learning experience on all levels, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

So this how we approached it to best of my recollection.

We had made the decision and also decided to carry it out the following Sunday. Sunday is the only day both of us are off from work and able to clear our schedules so that we could devote our attention to this task alone. The fortunate side was that it gave us the time to plan the particulars and reinforce our research into doing it humanely. The unfortunate side was that it meant a few more days of torture for Coq Au and thus we continued to keep a close eye on him and the flock in general.

The first thing we decided is that I, with her assistance, would perform the actual act and that she, with my assistance, would clean and butcher the remains.

There are as many ways to quickly dispatch a chicken as there are chicken owners, everything from wringing the neck to a .22 bullet. I considered every method, talked with a few people who had done it, watched a few videos, and decided that considering we were only butchering one chicken, that I would refrain from purchasing any special tools or set up. The method I chose would be to hang the bird from his feet and as soon as he had become calm (see part 2 of this story), I would quickly decapitate him with a kitchen knife, severing the spine and jugular and rendering him dead within seconds. There are other methods that are faster, more efficient, cleaner, and just as humane, but they involved setting up a space for this act and with only one bird to butcher, I didn’t want to create a processing station.

My wife, already with a basic understanding of some of the cleaning process associated with preparing a Thanksgiving Day turkey, read up further on the proper way to skin and gut a rooster. Although we would have liked to save the skin and disdain the thought of wasting anything, I vaguely remembered the difficulty of plucking a chicken from my youth and any contemporary resources confirmed that it is a pain in the ass to do. This, being our first time, we decided to skin the rooster to speed up the process and reduce the possibility of overall waste.

Also, my wife had settled on a recipe. Once a chicken is fully grown, the meat is tougher. Particularly in the case of home grown poultry who are not kept in tight spaces and not purposely fattened up or given growth hormones; and also particularly in the case of roosters. So she decided on a slow cooking stew.

That morning she prepared an outside table and tools for butchering and I gathered three important things … a sharp knife, a length of cord, and most of all my courage.

So here is how it all went once we put our plan into action.

She placed the table and tools far enough away from our chicken run so that the act would not overly disturb our flock. I prepared a place nearby to hang him by his feet and draped an old sheet over it so that the neighbors would not be disturbed by the act. Then I considered how to catch Floki. If we let him out of the run, I would be chasing him all over hell and creation, but he would be hard to catch inside the run with the rest of the flock. So, with a little maneuvering, I managed to let the flock out into the yard while isolating Floki inside the run. I had already knotted the cord into a slip knot so that all was in preparation, but I knew tying his legs would probably be a two person job, so I left it on the porch until I could retrieve the rooster. With Floki in the run and my wife on standby, I entered with a large leaf rake (see the photo from part 2) and was able to gently trap Floki along the fence with the rake. With great care, I held the rake against him with my knee so that I could grasp him by the thighs with two hands. After a little fumbling, I was able to grasp him just as well as I had during our little adventures of trying to tame him. I brought him to the porch where herself went through the process of slipping the cord over his talons and engaging the slip knot. It was tight enough to hold him, but not so tight as to cause discomfort. Through this whole process, Floki struggled a little, but was relatively calm.

I took him to the post and hung him upside down from the cord. While he was becoming becalmed, I used the time to escort the flock back into the run. The LAST thing we wanted was for them to be running amok while we were dispatching one of their own, nor did we want to subject them to witnessing the event!

Between rounding up the flock and taking a breather, Floki hung for about fifteen to twenty minutes which is about right to calm an agitated rooster. Some roosters may even pass out from this, or so we read, but he remained conscious and was, indeed, calm.

Knowing that the method I had chosen was likely to be messier than some others, I stripped down to only my shorts. Bare shouldered, I felt the sun upon my back to warm me, and bare footed, I felt the earth beneath my feet to steady me. For the sake of the life we raised and cared for, I must be focused and quick. I strode up to the place of Floki’s final moment, pulled the sheet over us, and regarded the young rooster.

Floki blinked but once. He did not move, and he gave no indication of any thought about the whole matter. He had become a blank slate, seemingly to accept what was to become without fear or judgment. I grasped him by the neck up close to his beak and pulled downward just enough to make sure I had a firm hold and that his neck would be unobstructed.

As I drew the blade, I noted that the sinews in his neck were strong and that I must follow through with steady, quick, even pressure, and as the blood spattered upon my chest, I cried just a little. Naturally, the act of sacrifice troubled me and he met the experience with restrained bravery. It is my hope that no matter how many times I may have to do this in life, I will always cry a little.

Within a millisecond, though, it was over. Floki’s head was disconnected from his body and the spirit within the young rooster had moved on. We left it to hang for another fifteen minutes or so to allow the blood to drain from the body. My wife briefly comforted me while the feeling of the earth and sky washed over me once again. Another part of the circle was turning ever on.

I cleaned myself off while herself prepared her tools. By the time I reemerged by her side, we reckoned that blood had drained enough and we were ready to begin skinning, cleaning, and butchering the meat.

 The head had been removed, and thus we also removed the legs at the ‘knee’ joint. My wife began to open and skin the bird. Let me tell you, the connective tissue holding the skin to the carcass was tough indeed, and before it was done, we both had a go at it. I am confident that we took longer to do this than an expert and likely did not do it as nearly as clean as someone practiced in the art would be, but we did a fairly clean job and felt that as little as possible was wasted.

She also removed the lower organs. She fancies the upper organs, where I am not a fan. The upper organs were set aside for her to prepare later, and the only parts that were ultimately discarded were the head, skin, and lower organs. Once skinned and cleaned, the meat itself was cut up into large sections. This being a fully grown rooster meant that he would be too tough to broil, so we weren’t concerned with keeping the bird intact.

We’re all used to the white, slightly pink look of packaged chicken from the grocery store, but this meat … mostly because of the breed … is all dark and sumptuous, breast meat included.

After the processing was over, she packed the feet in salt to preserve them and took the meat inside. I discarded what needed to be discarded and hosed the blood from the area. I didn’t think we’d be letting the flock into the yard again today, but I didn’t want them rooting around in the blood if they happened to wander over to that area.

As for the meat, she took the large hunks and put them into storage bags filled with wine to sit in the fridge overnight. The mild alcohol in the wine would help break down the tough flesh and make it more palatable. She chopped vegetables and made her other stew prep and come the morning, she would begin making the stew. We spent the rest of that day in quiet contemplation of the act and the ramifications of the circle of life. We also wondered about the state of our flock, a big change like this could mean political issues, but forever the optimists, we held our hope that any changes in the flock dynamic would be for the better now that Floki was gone.

The next morning she began to prepare the stew, which was also wine based. Thus, in an ultimate twist of irony, Floki was to indeed become “Coq Au Vin”. I’ll never know if she chose the dish out of a sense of poetic justice, or merely because it is the most practical way to prepare an adult, tough rooster, but it pleases me to think that centuries ago, whatever French farmer who came up with the original recipe, whose name is now long shrouded in antiquity, had been going through the same situation with HIS two roosters!

The stew had cooked in the crock pot all day, and by the time I had come home from work that Monday evening, the entire kitchen was full of the aroma of it. Without a word, she served us the stew. We let a moment or two of musing over Floki’s life pass between us and paid tribute to his sacrifice and then began our meal.

I don’t think I could properly describe the experience. Any words I might add would only cheapen the experience, so I’ll leave the taste to your imagination and reflect on the satisfied feeling we both had in sharing a meal that came primarily from our own efforts. We had raised the meat and most of the vegetables ourselves and it was exquisite.

Left overs were distributed to close kin as a form of nurturing to our extended family. My wife enjoyed a separate meal of the boiled organ meat (and I did, in fact, have a small taste of the heart). The scraps of everything after that were given to the cats and … yes … some to the flock. They had to live with him, it was only right that they draw nourishment from him as well. Coq Au seemed to take great delight in picking at the bones for marrow.

There is a tradition of snapping the wishbone of a chicken or turkey and making a wish (hence the name). Instead, with this rooster, I processed the wishbone in such a way that allowed me to instead tie it in a knot. Floki’s wishbone, now tied in a knot rather than being snapped and discarded, holds a place of honor in our home … it is a testament to his life and reminder to us of the circle and that all life is sacred.

 

Also … weeks later, when my wife extracted the feet from the salt, in an ultimate act of defiance, Floki, who had been silent through his execution, left us with a message about how he felt about the whole process.

 

The whole experience reaffirmed for me my views of the sacredness of life and brought the principle of the circle into sharp relief. I hope I will never waste life needlessly. I hope I will always cry a little when a sacrifice is made. As always … I hope.