This past Sunday was the first Chicken Day of 2009. Family and friends came to the farm to process meat birds while I stayed at the house, cooked them a lunch, and kept the cats from molesting the flower arrangements.
My husband Dan began by lighting the smoker at 4:00 a.m. when he got up for chores, and a half hour later I was dressing carrot salad, making vinaigrette, and putting the pork ribs on.
(Our own country-style pork ribs, coated in mustard and the spicy house rub.)I like making low-and-slow barbecue; after farmers' market the previous day, it's a swell way to unwind from rushing around and work, work, work.
This time we had a newbie on the line. Her reasoning was that if she wanted to keep her own egg-laying yardbirds, she ought to experience the responsibilities that come with owning livestock, specifically, processing. She tried all the stations: beheading, scalding, plucking, gutting, quality control (a.k.a. bag 'n tag). No easy task to accomplish.
(Front to back, Tomme Collins, Boucher Blue, Brother Laurent.)I wanted to award her for going through it with class and style, but instead spilled a rootbeer on her when I leapt from the double Adirondack chair as a meat timer alarm went off. Mortified!
The closest I'll ever get to what she did is fixing a processing date for my layers and selecting which ones to keep so that we have eggs over the winter (older hens also teach the new flock to go into the coop at night). I'm 'The Decider'. I know that in order for my egg-laying operation to be viable, hens must be 'turned over' every two years, but with less than 80 birds of different breeds and colors, little "chicken personalities" emerge and many become familiar. This violates the cardinal rule: NEVER make livestock into pets.
(After 4 hours at 220f, a "bark" has formed on the ribs. They were put into an aluminum pan with 1/4 cup of Corona and covered tightly in foil to finish cooking.)Meat birds are another story. They aren't here very long, aren't pretty, and it's a given that they are meant for the plate. But, I've never been involved in the processing, or even seen it, except in photos.
(Close-up of that bark.)The 'thank you lunch' featured ribs and chops (which, in spite of brining, were uncharacteristically chewy).
(The pork chops were better the second day.)There were three veggie salads, fruit tartes from farmers' market, and Rookie's Rootbeer floats. One of the appetizers was based on a dish Dan and I had eaten at Leunig's Restaurant called "Chilled Shrimp Trio".
(After 2 hours of steaming, these ribs are ready to be enjoyed.)I recall that while we were enjoying our shrimpies that day we heard a commotion of clapping and whooping outside. Dan looked in the street and said, "It's the pickle parade."
The "pickle parade" is actually the World Naked Bike Ride to bring awareness to alternative transportation, or alternative fuels, or recycling, or something - honestly, I didn't get a good enough look to see what the banner said, but I was already as close as I wanted to be. So my concentration fell to my plate, 'Hmm, I taste chili and Parmesan, do you taste cilantro?' and identified enough ingredients to create a facsimile of their dipping sauce for my guests on Chicken Day.
Today, another box of fluffy yellow day-old chicks arrived in the mail.
