The day after Christmas, we butchered eleven roosters. I’m taking extreme liberties with the word “we.”

It went something like this: Mr. Handsome said, Hey, let’s butcher chickens, and then he and I worked together to bundle the kids into their snow clothes and he took them outside and I snuck back to my computer by the fire.

The kids kept coming to the door because their hands were cold or they wanted a knife or they had to pee, so I finally locked the doors. I didn’t want them coming in with their chicken-y hands, sliming up my door knobs and bathroom spigot. And I didn’t want to keep being bothered. But if I ever heard the door knob rattle and then saw Mr. Handsome press his nose up against the kitchen sink window, I hopped. I didn’t want to irk him too badly, considering he was outside in the snow and cold, dealing with chickens and kids and guts, all by his brave lonesome.

I did step outside to take pictures of them bringing the chickens up from their pen down in yonder field.

Actually, Mr. Handsome rang me on his cell phone and told me to get my butt outside to see my kids hauling chickens, via sled.

When I got done snapping the pics, I turned and saw the eviscerating station set up behind me … on my side porch.

I groaned and ran back inside.

But after a bit, I heard boots stomping and chirping voices. And then Yo-Yo stuck his head in the door (this was before I got peeved and locked them out) and asked for my best chopping knife. “I’m ready to cut off the feet,” he said. “I know how.”

“Did Papa tell you to use my knife? Did he say you could start?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I know how!”

I made him wait.

One by one, the kids straggled up to the porch, naked chickens hanging from their hands. They flopped them down at the eviscerating station (I like saying that—it makes me sound butcher-savvy) and examined them thoroughly. Miss Beccaboo searched for pin feathers.

Then she discovered she could make them balance on their feet.

Yo-Yo’s chicken leaped through the air…

and danced the polka.

And then he cut off its feet.

AAAAAURGH! GRRRRRRRR! MWAAAAARH! HI-YA!

The Baby Nickel alternated between clutching the chickens,

and examining all their orifices.

He even looked one of them in the eye … kind of.

Then he figured out that he could make it run in place. Look, Mama, look! It’s running!

This—seeing children playing around with dead animals—might seem gruesome to some people, I realize, but I don’t see it that way at all. Take, for example, Laura and Mary. When their family did a hog butchering, they blew up the bladder (as in, inflated it, not exploded it) and turned it into a ball. So see, making dead chickens dance is a normal part of the butchering process, especially when kids are present.

(Speaking of hog butcherings, our neighbors are slaughtering their hogs on Saturday. Maybe I should go beg the bladders so my kids can have some balls to play with?)

The day drug on. I fed the kids lunch and put them down for rest time. Mr. Handsome kept at it, killing, defeathering, gutting. After a while he asked me to please come out and help. I sent Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo out instead. And then I went to the window and took a picture of the father-daughter quality time.

See, it’s good for me to not always be present.

My absence allows the other family members’ relationships to blossom and grow. I know, I know, a more thoughtful mother you will never meet.

At the end of the day Mr. Handsome brought in the birds for me to pick over one last time. He hoisted the cooler onto the counter and cocked an eyebrow at me, daring me to fuss. I took the hint, zipped my lips, and got to work. These chickens were quite different from the last ones we butchered—these were lean, heavy, dark (meat-wise) … and hairy. It was impossible to get all the hair off some of them (maybe because they were already chilled?), so I ended up skinning about half of them. And then I popped them into bags and Mr. Handsome ran them down to the freezer.

We still have lots of chicken from the last butchering day, so our winter diet will be a bit chicken-centric—expect plenty of yummy chicken recipes in the near future.

About One Year Ago: Lentil-Sausage Soup

The night before we left on our Tour de PA, I made a bowl of sweet and spicy popcorn, a late-night snack for my loverman and me. The recipe called for cayenne, Demerara sugar, and fresh rosemary, the last of which I had none, but even so, the popcorn was mighty impressive without it—salty, crunchy sweet, and lip-burning hot. It bit my tongue and branded itself into my head.

I didn’t know that at the time, of course, but it soon became apparent because I couldn’t stop thinking about it, really actually thinking about it. No matter what crazy fun was going on around me—twelve kids and two dogs zipping around the sofas at one house, the uncles and cousins and brothers belting out folksy music at deafeningly harmonious levels at another house, car rides with the cranky, sniveling kids between houses—no matter what glorious chaos was going on, when an image of that popcorn, all buttery and flecked with cayenne and Demerara sugar (oh my stars!), slipped into my mind, my eyes glazed over as I tossed the image about my brain, relishing every minute of my savory daydream. When you get home, I’d tell myself, you can make a big bowl of popcorn and eat it all. It gave me something to live for.

Not that I wasn’t already living it up amongst our kindly kin, because I was, really and truly. We were treated like kings and queens, sleeping on the best air mattresses and feasting on all kinds of delectable goodies, from enchiladas and ham to hummus and chocolates to omelets and egg salad and mountains of fresh fruit. And baked French toast with hot blueberry sauce and cranberry relish and sweet-and-sour chicken and fruit salad and creamy tomato soup and tea ring. All you dear ones out there? If you thought I was acting a little spacey while I was at your house, now you know. It was the popcorn.

At one point in all the hoopla, when I was sitting around the impossibly long dinning table at my Aunt Valerie’s, sipping coffee and sampling all of my cousin Zoe’s pies, I happened to mention to Zoe about my latest food crush, which turned out to be pretty smart of me because she immediately said, “Oh my goodness gracious, I have loads of rosemary at home! You want me to bring you some when I come back over for supper?”

Um … yes? Absolutely and positively, YES! Please.

And that’s just what she did. When she blew in the door that evening, she was carrying, along with the big baby on one hip and the little baby on the other hip (maybe I’m not remembering exactly right—her husband probably had one of the babies), several generous sprigs of rosemary, the pungent stems wrapped in dampened newspaper and nestled in a plastic bag.

When we got home Sunday night, and as soon as we started the fire, unpacked, and got the kids tucked into bed, I scurried out to the kitchen to make my popcorn supper. I figure that it’s pretty darn close to a well-balanced meal that covers all the major food groups, what with the corn (carbohydrate), butter (protein), and cayenne and rosemary (vegetable).

The popcorn with the rosemary? Complete deliciousness. Mark my words. Mr. Handsome even said that of the two ways I had made it so far, he preferred it with the rosemary. And he’s not an herby kind of guy. Mark his words.

I made it again yesterday afternoon, for photography purposes and to satisfy the craving that won’t quit. The kids tried it, fussed about the heat, and then kept coming back for more, thus proving that it really does have addictive properties.

Consider that fair warning. I am hitherto and forthwith absolved of any and all consequences that may occur upon the making of this popcorn, such as visions, obsessions, and tingly lips.

Sweet and Spicy Popcorn
Adapted from Tara’s blog Seven Spoons

The original recipe called for more cayenne, an entire half teaspoon. I dialed it back to a generous fourth teaspoon, but for you heat-loving people, feel free to crank it back up to full, lip-blistering power. Tara also said to sprinkle it with red pepper flakes, something I haven’t done yet, but you may want to give that a shot, too.

Also, I made my popcorn in the air popper—stove top and microwave popcorn may not need quite so much butter. Then again, depending on your relationship with butter, you may want even more.

If you try other variations on this theme, please let me know. I’m kind of ga-ga over the stuff.

½ cup unpopped popcorn, popped
2-3 tablespoons butter, melted
2 teaspoons Demerara sugar
1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh rosemary
½ teaspoon salt
1/4-1/3 teaspoon cayenne pepper

In a small bowl, mix together the sugar, rosemary, salt, and cayenne pepper.

Drizzle the butter over the hot, freshly popped popcorn, tossing frequently. Sprinkle the spices over the popcorn and toss another time. Promptly devour.

About One Year Ago: In which I use a lot of words to make a fake confession.