Turkeys
I don't know who my audience is with this post. Those who've slaughtered and dressed their own meat may roll their eyes at this rookie's description. Those who lean toward vegetarianism may only be further confirmed in their inclinations. All I can offer is that you don't have to read further.
Yesterday, I took my young crew up to Four Seasons Farm in Leon, WV.
We've bought eggs from the gifted, friendly, wise owner over the years, as well as what Caoimhe has termed "the world's BEST honey," sprouts, fresh bread, sauerkraut, whole chickens for roasting, and a host of other goodies.
We've also visited the farm a few times--to romp with the animals, go swimming in the pond, or just wander about and play.
Yesterday was different; it was our first time actually helping with the harvest. 17 of the many turkeys strutting about met a calm and quick end, destined for dinner tables across the state.
We arrived around 10:30 A.M., snow flurries swirling sparsely, in time to be directed down the hill, around the back of the house and into the basement door. Caoimhe found a playmate in the house upstairs while Aria and I watched, fascinated, in the basement as the first bird came in. I took a place in line and started copying what the others were doing--pulling wet little white sticks off (the pinfeathers to the initiated.) Aria was hesitant to do so, and initially uncomfortable when anyone touched the head or neck. However, we needed an official photographer and she gladly accepted the position.
Caoimhe came down and took a few close-ups of the many hands plucking from turkey's neck to tail. When more children arrived, she de-camped to visit piglets and puppies. For the rest of my day, I caught fleeting glimpses of my youngest child. I learned later that there were also hay piles and bales to be inspected, among other enticements.
Aria paid homage to the farm babies, but was back at my side within 10 minutes, where she took to her new role with gusto. She started out taking pics of the birds being plucked, but decreed that she needed to document the whole process. My budding documentarian then followed adults outside, where she took photos of a person catching a turkey, calming the turkey, making a very fast, small cut in the neck of the turkey and catching the blood in a saucepan.
She photographed the dead bird being scalded, put into the feather plucker (a large tin bucket with lots of rubber fingers and rotating bottom,) and *then* brought naked down the hill and into the wood-stove-warmed basement where we--seasoned and virgin alike--eagerly waited our next assignment. Once done plucking out the last pinfeathers and occasional stubborn wing feather, the birds were put on ice outside (or perhaps my hands were ice--the water was very cold.)
This part of the job went much more quickly than Martin, our farmer friend, anticipated. He brought out homemade hard cider (wow--that stuff was good,) cooked the blood with a roux of fried veggies, and joined in general conversation.
My children here became a bit antsy as they didn't want the delicious homemade bread with lots of grains and seeds or the blood sausage, they just wanted to get on with it. Caoimhe once again drifted away to the siren's call of puppies, piglets and hay piles after warming up. Aria toughed it out with me, lavishing love on whichever dogs she could get near her.
I overheard a lovely woman whom I'd quickly regarded as mentor say, "I'm not looking forward to the next part," followed quickly by Aria's unmistakable chirpy confidence--"Oh, I can't WAIT for the next part! I love it!"
When the bull session wrapped up, the work area cleaned and the wood fire stoked, the first two birds were brought back in from the cold. Martin demonstrated to a very attentive audience how to cut the turkey's head as high on the neck as possible, how to skin the neck, remove the trachea and craw, and then turned the bird. Next came cutting around the anus, reaching in and removal of the insides, and the careful sorting through to remove gall bladder, intestines and kidneys, setting aside the liver, stomach, gizzards and heart.
The bulk of what I could see was a bunch of bundled-up backs hunched around the table. I hope med school presentations are more visible or ye gads!
Aria took one look at the head in the bowl, the intestines in a bucket, and firmly stated that more pictures needed to be taken outside. To prove herself, perhaps? she came in later and told me that she had held a saucepan to catch the blood from one of the just-killed birds. By then she had hardened to the sights on our busy table and the buckets of innards didn't phase her. The smell when a careless hand punctured the gall bladder did -- and out she went again.
Martin came in a few times--to protest that a heart had been cut, or a wing broken--and to re-demonstrate more than once exactly what steps to take. The biggest bird was reserved for his minister--he came in to handle that one himself from beginning to end.
It was after 4 PM when we washed hands, bundled up and began bagging the once-again bobbing-in-icy-water birds. By then, every child on the place was ready to go home. We left, bird in bag, shortly after.
A few observations:
children are completely unfazed by death if it's presented as fun or science or pretty much anything other than the lugubrious horrible ickiness that the bulk of our non-agrarian society portrays it as.
A very little turkey turd can smell a long way.
A very small sip of hard cider will warm a person for quite a long time.
A few hours killing, cleaning, dressing and bagging turkeys doesn't sound that great, but can be pretty awesome with a group of well-educated, well-rounded, well-traveled individuals eager to learn and participate.
Yesterday, I took my young crew up to Four Seasons Farm in Leon, WV.
We've bought eggs from the gifted, friendly, wise owner over the years, as well as what Caoimhe has termed "the world's BEST honey," sprouts, fresh bread, sauerkraut, whole chickens for roasting, and a host of other goodies.
We've also visited the farm a few times--to romp with the animals, go swimming in the pond, or just wander about and play.
Yesterday was different; it was our first time actually helping with the harvest. 17 of the many turkeys strutting about met a calm and quick end, destined for dinner tables across the state.
We arrived around 10:30 A.M., snow flurries swirling sparsely, in time to be directed down the hill, around the back of the house and into the basement door. Caoimhe found a playmate in the house upstairs while Aria and I watched, fascinated, in the basement as the first bird came in. I took a place in line and started copying what the others were doing--pulling wet little white sticks off (the pinfeathers to the initiated.) Aria was hesitant to do so, and initially uncomfortable when anyone touched the head or neck. However, we needed an official photographer and she gladly accepted the position.
Caoimhe came down and took a few close-ups of the many hands plucking from turkey's neck to tail. When more children arrived, she de-camped to visit piglets and puppies. For the rest of my day, I caught fleeting glimpses of my youngest child. I learned later that there were also hay piles and bales to be inspected, among other enticements.
Aria paid homage to the farm babies, but was back at my side within 10 minutes, where she took to her new role with gusto. She started out taking pics of the birds being plucked, but decreed that she needed to document the whole process. My budding documentarian then followed adults outside, where she took photos of a person catching a turkey, calming the turkey, making a very fast, small cut in the neck of the turkey and catching the blood in a saucepan.
She photographed the dead bird being scalded, put into the feather plucker (a large tin bucket with lots of rubber fingers and rotating bottom,) and *then* brought naked down the hill and into the wood-stove-warmed basement where we--seasoned and virgin alike--eagerly waited our next assignment. Once done plucking out the last pinfeathers and occasional stubborn wing feather, the birds were put on ice outside (or perhaps my hands were ice--the water was very cold.)
This part of the job went much more quickly than Martin, our farmer friend, anticipated. He brought out homemade hard cider (wow--that stuff was good,) cooked the blood with a roux of fried veggies, and joined in general conversation.
My children here became a bit antsy as they didn't want the delicious homemade bread with lots of grains and seeds or the blood sausage, they just wanted to get on with it. Caoimhe once again drifted away to the siren's call of puppies, piglets and hay piles after warming up. Aria toughed it out with me, lavishing love on whichever dogs she could get near her.
I overheard a lovely woman whom I'd quickly regarded as mentor say, "I'm not looking forward to the next part," followed quickly by Aria's unmistakable chirpy confidence--"Oh, I can't WAIT for the next part! I love it!"
When the bull session wrapped up, the work area cleaned and the wood fire stoked, the first two birds were brought back in from the cold. Martin demonstrated to a very attentive audience how to cut the turkey's head as high on the neck as possible, how to skin the neck, remove the trachea and craw, and then turned the bird. Next came cutting around the anus, reaching in and removal of the insides, and the careful sorting through to remove gall bladder, intestines and kidneys, setting aside the liver, stomach, gizzards and heart.
The bulk of what I could see was a bunch of bundled-up backs hunched around the table. I hope med school presentations are more visible or ye gads!
Aria took one look at the head in the bowl, the intestines in a bucket, and firmly stated that more pictures needed to be taken outside. To prove herself, perhaps? she came in later and told me that she had held a saucepan to catch the blood from one of the just-killed birds. By then she had hardened to the sights on our busy table and the buckets of innards didn't phase her. The smell when a careless hand punctured the gall bladder did -- and out she went again.
Martin came in a few times--to protest that a heart had been cut, or a wing broken--and to re-demonstrate more than once exactly what steps to take. The biggest bird was reserved for his minister--he came in to handle that one himself from beginning to end.
It was after 4 PM when we washed hands, bundled up and began bagging the once-again bobbing-in-icy-water birds. By then, every child on the place was ready to go home. We left, bird in bag, shortly after.
A few observations:
children are completely unfazed by death if it's presented as fun or science or pretty much anything other than the lugubrious horrible ickiness that the bulk of our non-agrarian society portrays it as.
A very little turkey turd can smell a long way.
A very small sip of hard cider will warm a person for quite a long time.
A few hours killing, cleaning, dressing and bagging turkeys doesn't sound that great, but can be pretty awesome with a group of well-educated, well-rounded, well-traveled individuals eager to learn and participate.
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