It all started when Richard came to dismember a chicken. He casually asked me to choose one for him at which time I faced a dilemma that will be familiar to those who've read the first post on this blog. This time however, I decided not to turn a blind eye and confidently strode to the chicken coop to play judge, jury and perhaps even executioner. As it turned out, chickens aren't that keen to come near you at the best of times, so things were delayed while I got some feed and then returned to coax one unlucky walking roast dinner towards me.
This part was actually pretty easy but the calmness of the bird didn't make me feel any easier about what was ahead. Neither did assessing the suitability of the animal for eating. But it was too late to turn back now.
So here it is. The blood on my hands:
Can you spot it? There, on my finger. The red stuff! Oh, never mind.
Of course, I was never going to be able watch what was going to happen, however I did both listen to it and assist in what came afterwards. You know, plucking and stuff (shudder).
Despite Jo's reassuring words ("the other chickens are going to hate you for killing one of their family"), I slept a little uneasily that night, considered becoming a vegetarian and even continually washed my hands ala Lady Macbeth. And then a few nights later Richard invited us around for dinner. We had roast chicken.
