This morning I woke up to the smell of stewing chicken. It drifted through the house, all the way back to the bedroom, and permeated my dreams until I woke thinking “what is that smell”? Honestly, it didn’t smell that good so early in the morning. I thought someone farted. Since both John and Jett were in our cramped bed, that was a very valid possibility.
I know the smell of chicken cooking isn’t that unique. But what makes this particular chicken special is this was our chicken: home-raised, home-butchered, home-cooked. I finally got up the nerve to march out to the storage freezer, grab one of those poor chickens and cook it without over-thinking it’s previous cackle and cricket-filled life.
What finally pushed me over the brink? Nasty chicken farms. Everywhere around here. But mostly chicken trucks. Seems like every day I pass a huge, open semi stocked with cages filled with the most pathetic and dirty, but huge, white chickens you’ve ever seen in your life. They’re smushed into these cages. More often than not you’ll see several with feet in the air like a cartoon only not so funny. These trucks and their sad chickens taunt me as I drive along the highway trying to pass them as quickly as possible. Pass enough of these and you too will take a pass on store-bought chicken.
No more industrial chicken for me. I don’t care how many buy one get one sales the freakin’ grocery store has. I decided only chicken from our farm or a friend’s — or none. So I came home, got out the crock-pot and after a small give of thanks to my formerly fine-feathered friend, started stewing. This chicken will become white chicken chili and quarts of canned chicken stock. I don’t know if I will actually eat it, but I might.
That is the next hurdle. I’m honestly not that big a fan of eating any meat in general. Just a personal thing. And I wouldn’t be eating chicken at this point anyway if it weren’t for my mom harping about protein and basically guilting me into it many years ago. Ironic. Guilt for not eating it; guilt for eating it.
Whether I eat it or not, the boys will. Well, Jett will if I don’t tell him where it came from. But that would be wrong. Especially for a boy who sees the dreaded chicken truck and wants me to let him out of the car so he can pick the locks on the cages and set them free.
I guess it comes down to this. Whatever you choose to eat and however you choose to eat it, although you may not want to know its history, health and demise — it’s better if you do.