Chicken soup for the soul

Warning: this post contains a graphic (but respectful) description of the slaughter of  our three roosters. Feel free to click away now if you don't fancy reading that. 

We were lucky enough to have only three roosters from our last clutch of chicks. We tolerated the crowing and kept our fingers crossed that there'd be no more chicks. But when the three of them started fighting, we knew that it was time for them to go.

One of the other mothers at Playcentre was prepared to take them in - for soup. So I dropped them off with her father-in-law last weekend. When I arrived, I spotted a slaughter kit laid out in the shady courtyard in front of their house - a coil of rope, a single glove and a stanley knife. I popped the roosters in the shade, in their boxes, intending to make a quick exit. But I ended up bearing witness to the demise of our surplus boys and I was very glad that I did.

My friend's father-in-law sat on a stool at the base of  a camellia bush. He plucked the first bird out of its box, gripping it firmly but gently at the nape of its neck. He stretched out the bird's wings and coiled the rope slowly around the base. When the wings were secured, he turned the bird upside down and did the same with its feet. He then silently hung the bird from the lower branches of the bush.

Next he delicately plucked a few feathers from the bird's throat and took up his stanley knife. He flicked the knife slowly at the bird's throat, searching for the jugular vein. After a short time, rich red blood began to drip on the fallen leaves at the base of the tree. The bird remained quiet and still, totally immobilised but calm. My friend's father-in-law massaged the bird's throat to make the blood run more quickly before taking up the next bird.

As he took each bird out of the box, he declared it to be beautiful and treated it with great respect. The second bird died before the first and he untied it from the bush and laid it carefully on the ground. He tapped its open eye with his finger tip and the eye shut. The first bird followed and the third bird was taken from its box.

The third and final rooster, who'd fought his way to the top of the pecking order, was a little less docile. His squawking and flapping as he was handled brought the man's wife from inside the house. She told me that, at six months old, the roosters would be tender. Their carcasses would be dipped into boiling water to loosen the feathers and the wings would be the greatest challenge for plucking. Luckily they have a machine that makes it easy.

I've been promised two of the roosters in return so that I can make a hearty soup in anticipation of the birth of our second baby. I just hope that I can do them justice.