It’s a dreary morning, cloudy and foggy, and all four kids are outside picking strawberries. They have an assortment of buckets and bowls and are tromping up and down the patch in a haphazard manner. Their disorganization bothers me a bit since I’m inclined to move methodically down the row—I like to know from where I’ve come and to where I’m going, and I hate retracing my steps—but we have so many strawberries that it doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t matter if they miss some or if The Baby Nickel stomps on two or three or twenty or if some of Sweetsie’s berries are half-green. An abundance of garden produce brings out a normally much-lacking quality in me—generosity towards my children and their mistakes. (But! Don’t anyone dare touch my basil!)
Oops, now they’re back in, pleased as punch with their finds.
This is just the tip of the strawberry iceberg. I’m needing some ideas and inspiration, so please take a second and tell me: What are your favorite ways to use fresh strawberries?
We had a perfect day for butchering chickens—sunny, breezy, and a couple degrees below hot.
We didn’t get started as soon as we had planned because Mr. Handsome wasn’t done Setting Up. You have to understand this about Mr. Handsome: he likes his systems. He hates extra motions and inadequate facilities. (It’s why I can’t stand working in the kitchen with him—he’s forever telling me how to do things differently.) He’d rather spend several hours setting up than get started early and lurch along using a flawed system. So, thanks to Mr. Handsome’s idiosyncrasies, we didn’t get started on time, but we had the best set-up yet.
The gas stove’s legs were removed to keep it closer to the ground because it’s easier to bend over to dip the chickens then it is to hoist them up to waist height.
We had borrowed a tumbler (the de-featherer) from our friend Lee.
We had tables, extra shelving, trash buckets for the innards, a wheelbarrow of dirt to cover the innards as we went along, and a shovel to sprinkle it with. Mr. Handsome even rigged up an outdoor sink. He was adamant that we would all be working together. Ain’t that sweet?
The first couple chickens were slow-going as we had to smooth out the bumps. We had to fetch the kitchen stools, the cooler with ice, the bags and twisties (which, because I had no pockets, I stashed in my bra—my brothers laughed at my newly created “breast pocket”), and sharp knives.
It’s not a good idea to butcher chickens with dull knives. Even if you think you have sharp knives, they are not sharp enough. Just so you know.
We had forgotten to tell Mom and Dad to bring their killing cone, so Mr. Handsome and my Balding Bro rigged one out of a duct-taped five-gallon bucket. It didn’t work too well because it wasn’t wide enough to hold the fat chickens, so after a few experiments they settled on using a combination of cone, noose, and ax.
While Mr. Handsome was fully engrossed in all the butchery details, I focused on the kids. I was a little concerned about how they would handle the day’s events, because after all, it had been two years since we last butchered chickens.
The closer we got to butchering time, the more withdrawn Miss Becca Boo became. She accompanied me when I walked down to the chicken tractor to take a last picture of the chickies. As we turned to trudge back up to the house, she slumped against me, pressing her head into my stomach like she does when she’s on the verge of tears. I suspected this moment was coming and that “Buck-Up, Honeycup” wouldn’t cut it. I was hopeful that sympathy and education would be sufficient, so I gave it my best shot. “Oh, honey,” I said. “You don’t like this, do you? It makes you feel sad because you like these birds, right?”
Her head bobbed painfully up and down against my hip bone. I shifted my position so that her head was nestled squarely in my tummy.
“It makes me feel a little funny, too,” I continued. “Papa doesn’t like to butcher animals either. But you know what? We raised these birds for our food. They aren’t pets. We would never butcher Francie or Blackie, oh my no! But we got these chickens so that we can have meat. It’s part of life, but I know it’s not always easy. That’s why we don’t eat meat all the time—we just eat some meat—because it’s not fun to butcher. It’s like our corn crop. We plant the corn and take care of it and then when it’s ready, we harvest it so that we can eat it. That’s what we’re doing with these birds. And you were an important part of the whole process because you took such good care of the chickies. You helped out an awful lot.”
My words must’ve made sense (yes!) because Miss Becca Boo sniffed, took my hand, and turned resolutely towards the house.
Over the course of the day she underwent a dramatic transformation. At first she hung back (and she never witnessed the actual killing; neither did I) and just watched, but within a few hours she was fully immersed in the work.
(The science lesson)
She was amazing—both my parents said so. On a couple different occasions she exclaimed, the elation stemming from relief, I suppose, “This isn’t bad at all! This is fun!”
Here she is, working to extract the innards, searching for those mysterious cords that mark the upper reaches of the chest cavity—once you find them, you’ve gone in far enough and can start pulling everything out (though I wouldn’t know because I’ve never actually done it).
Yo-Yo’s job was to cut off the chicken feet, and he also tried his hand at the gutting.
While he didn’t actually kill a chicken (despite all his prior boosting), he did help to hold a couple of them while Mr. Handsome swung the ax. I was impressed.
Sweetsie kept her hands over her ears—her reflexive habit when anxious—and spent a good part of the day lolling on the porch and reading books.
The Baby Nickel was totally fascinated with the butchering.
Despite our matter-of-fact attitudes and the premise that this is just a part of life, Mr. Handsome and I were both a little concerned that he was seeing too much. However, we were too busy to keep pulling him back every time someone picked up the ax, so we finally gave up and let him stare all he wanted.
He seemed unfazed.
Despite the earthiness of the day’s proceedings, or maybe because of them, I found the whole event to be deeply satisfying. Butchering really isn’t hard to do (especially if you have a good system)—it just takes time—and when you spend the day with your favorite people on earth, laughing and learning and working hard, it’s gratifying. As my Tiny-Little Brother said, “Screw amusement parks—when we want to have fun, we butcher chickens!” I wouldn’t quite call it fun, as in merry, ho-ho, and tra-la-la fun, but I would call it fun in the sense that it was productive and rewarding. And that might be the best kind of fun when it comes down to it.
For the record: We started butchering at about ten in the morning and we finished by six (minus a little cleaning up that happened after supper). We butchered 34 chickens—the extra one came from our neighbor boy who showed up with a giant chicken tucked under his arm. “It fell off one of the chicken trucks,” he explained. “We kept it and fed it and it’s ready for butchering. You can have it.”
For more on information on butchering chickens, visit here.
Ps. Somehow Sweetsie has it in her mind that I said we would eat chicken now and she’s taken to, in moments of extreme tiredness, crying about it. “You said we would eat chicken! I want to eat chicken!”
We all know people that have monodiets, right? Frances, of the children’s book Bread and Jam for Frances, is a perfect example. She subsisted on—you guessed it—bread and jam. At first her parents attempted to persuade her to try different foods, but finally they gave up trying. Then her mother got smart and only offered (to Frances) the coveted bread and jam at every meal until Frances broke down and cried and ate meatballs. It’s a great book.
I’ve turned into Frances, and it’s all because of Asparagus, Goat Cheese, and Lemon Pasta. I made it for dinner the other night, and then I ate if for breakfast the next morning. And lunch. And breakfast the next morning. And maybe for lunch, too, but I’m fuzzy on that detail—my meals had turned into one long pasta orgy.
I took a couple days off, not because I didn’t want to eat it but because I was preparing other foods for everyone to eat, but then I had it for lunch again yesterday. There’s enough left for one more meal, and for that I am grateful.
As you can probably guess by the abundance of the leftovers, the rest of the family did not like the dish. Crazy people. My kids don’t like asparagus, so I expected them not to eat it, but Mr. Handsome said it didn’t taste like anything. Didn’t taste like anything?! Sometimes he’s just not quite right in the head and it’s best to turn the other direction and ignore him entirely. This is delicious.
Because I knew my children would not like this meal and because I didn’t want to hear them fussing and whining for the next few hours, I made a parallel dish (I almost never do this) using the same premise. I used cream cheese in place of the goat cheese and omitted the thyme. Also, I subbed peas for the asparagus. They ate it, but they didn’t really like it. I thought that dish didn’t taste like anything which leads me to believe that the goat cheese is the highlight—it adds an earthy, musky flavor that I can’t seem to get enough of. Obviously.
Asparagus, Goat Cheese, and Lemon Pasta Adapted from Deb at Smitten Kitchen
Deb calls for fresh tarragon, of which I had none, so I substituted dried thyme. Also, Deb says to use the logs of goat cheese—not the crumbly kind. As far as I can tell, my little grocery only sells the goat cheese in log form, so I don’t even know what crumbled goat cheese looks like; however, if you have to pick between the two, I suggest you listen to Deb and get the log of cheese.
Updated on April 15, 2010: One pound of asparagus is definitely not enough. I recommend doubling the asparagus, at the minimum.
one pound tube pasta, such as Ziti one to two pounds asparagus spears (see headnote), trimmed and cut into one or two-inch lengths (the same size of your pasta) 1 tablespoon lemon zest 2 to 4 tablespoons fresh lemon juice 1/4 to ½ teaspoon dried thyme 1/4 cup olive oil 5 to 6 ounces soft goat cheese a cup of reserved water from the pasta pot salt black pepper
Cook the pasta according to package directions. Towards the end of the cooking time, scoop a cup of the pasta water from the pot.
While the pasta is cooking, prepare the cheese sauce. Put the rest of the ingredients In a small bowl. Using a fork, mash the oil and lemon juice into the goat cheese until you have a thick creamy paste. Add the pasta water—you’ll use at least half a cup of the water and maybe even as much as an entire cup—to thin the mixture, making it easier to more thoroughly coat the pasta.
About three minutes before the pasta is done, add the asparagus. When the pasta is done cooking and the asparagus is bright green and briskly tender (none of this floppy-slimy business), drain the pasta and asparagus, place them in a serving bowl, and toss with the goat cheese mixture.
Taste to check the seasonings (it may need more lemon and don’t skimp on the salt) and serve.
The gas stove’s legs were removed to keep it closer to the ground because it’s easier to bend over to dip the chickens then it is to hoist them up to waist height.
Despite our matter-of-fact attitudes and the premise that this is just a part of life, Mr. Handsome and I were both a little concerned that he was seeing too much. However, we were too busy to keep pulling him back every time someone picked up the ax, so we finally gave up and let him stare all he wanted.
He seemed unfazed.
