A quiet young man at work calls himself a “city boy” by birth, but is becoming more “countrified” every day. He bought a small chicken coop and put it in his backyard several months ago so he could have “fresh eggs”.
He lives slap dab in the middle of town and the four Rhode Island Red chicks he bought turned out to be roosters. Roosters don’t lay eggs, so in quiet frustration, he told me he was starting over this weekend with four pullet chicks from another distributor.
“Well”, sounding more like a tired old farmer than a young city guy learning the basics, “I think I’m gonna have some fresh grilled chicken.”
Have you slaughtered chickens before?
“Well, no. But I went dove hunting once, and it’s probably about the same.” He hadn’t decided if he was going to chop off their heads or wring their necks. I smiled at his conundrum, and a brain wrinkled memory flashed back.