A Cornish Slaughter

I slaughtered my first chicken on Sunday. "First" means it probably won't be my last; I was hardly numbed by the experience, and an aspiring homesteader in the Northeast should see any introductory chicken exposure as preparation for the future.

But let me preface the rest of this post by saying that I used to be a vegetarian. I read my first Peter Singer (renowned animal rights activist) when I was a sophomore in college, and it paralyzed me. How could you think of meat as anything other than murder? he asked (with fancier words). Maybe, once, for our hunter-gatherer ancestors, survival necessitated such crime. But now, with the bounty of agriculture, we have so much control over our diet that we can easily cut out meat without sacrificing that oh-so-important protein. And if you think you can evade the criminal accusation on the basis of your superior intelligence to animals, well then, you are simply unintelligent. For pigs are smarter than infants and even some mentally handicapped people, but we certainly wouldn't think it moral to kill them.

This is a gross oversimplification of his arguments, but he and many others have written books on the subject. The point is, Singer convinced me in a few pages that eating meat lumped me in the same evil category as first-degree murderers. And I wasn't okay with that. The next day, I became a vegetarian--forgive the pun--cold turkey.

Two years later, I read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. She devoted an entire chapter to an on-farm slaughter of turkeys that she had humanely raised on her farm, and she, too, prefaced her narrative with some context: Her entire family had practiced vegetarianism for 14 years! But in the late 90s, other issues like the slavery of migrant farm labor, the climate implications of methane-producing cows and food miles, and the rise of diet-related chronic disease called into question our food system at-large. The idea that ethical eating isn't just about whether or not you eat animal products was gaining momentum. Conscious consumption was becoming much more nuanced and holistic, much more about slow food--good tasting, environmentally friendly, fairly produced and accessible food.

Suddenly, when viewing the entire puzzle of food system reform, eating meat--the right kind of meat--didn't seem so unnecessary. In the spirit of a regionally appropriate diet, meat is unavoidable in many places simply because of climate: If you want to eat locally pretty much anywhere except the deep south or California, you're not going to survive the long, dormant-growing-season that is winter on potatoes, carrots, and beets. Sure, you could go to the store and buy some protein-rich meat alternatives like tofu, tempeh, or even canned beans; but what are the ethical implications of these foods? How many insects and mammals were sacrificed for the health of those soybean fields or rows of beans? And how much gas polluted the air during the transportation of those products from the field to dinner plate? And how much space is all of that wasted packaging going to take up in a bursting landfill? Barbara had asked all of these questions and resolved them by putting chicken (or turkey) back on the table.



I later read an argument in favor of eating good meat-- that is, locally and humanely raised--as an even better protest to abhorrent factory farms than not eating meat at all. As the author realized, we must come to terms with the fact that farmed meat isn't going to disappear because a handful of people decide not to buy it. So why not support the small farms doing it the right way? Ensuring their success provides consumers unwilling to give up meat with an ethical alternative.

And so, a mere two-and-a-half years after deciding I had no other choice for maintaining my moral integrity but to go veggie, I started eating meat--good meat--again. I have deemed myself a "conscious carnivore" (I'm still looking for something less pretentious, if you have any suggestions), and buy meat produced only on local farms that I know give their animals a good life.

Now it's time for the real story:

Thanks to industrial meat, on-farm animal slaughter can probably be considered a rarity in our culture (though common in many parts of the world). Aaron and Kara are two young farmers who decided to share with their friends the beauty in this unpopular manifestation of community food security. For me, and I think I can safely speak on behalf of all others there, being a part of this event was not about whether we could or could not kill a chicken. This was about deepening that connection between farm and fork and witnessing how the achievement of this understanding builds community at the same time.

On their small homestead just outside of Ithaca, Aaron and Kara humanely raised 42 Cornish Cross chickens for the sole purpose of meat. Through an email, they let friends know of the slaughter day and invited people to participate and purchase birds for $10 each. This price simply covered the costs of raising the animals. Rather than make a profit, their intent was to provide friends eager for a taste of small-scale meat production with an incredibly valuable and unique educational experience.

Aaron and Kara demonstrate the evisceration stage

When Dylan and I arrived, I felt like I was late for class. About twenty people were already huddled in a shady patch of mowed grass just above the long driveway. Behind a long table covered with cardboard, Kara stood beside Aaron who was in the middle of explaining each stage of the process. Between the teachers and students, there was a propane tank, a camping stove, and two pots filled with water . Several feet away from the table on either side were two trees each with a makeshift contraption that held in place a suspended traffic cone; the pointed end had been cut off, leaving a hole that faced the ground.

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After catching the tail end of Aaron's instructional overview, we joined the group on the first trip to the coop. The first kill neared, and I worried more intensely than I had during the day if I was going to be able to handle this. People photographed and filmed as Aaron and Kara collected as many birds as could be sandwiched in the two bins, then we returned to the station and gathered around the nearest cone. Everyone fixed their eyes on Aaron as he snatched one of the chickens by the feet, holding it upside-down as he rubber-banded the dinosaur legs. Then he placed the bird, now calmer, head-first through the cone, reaching his hand into the hole underneath to pull its head and neck through.

First, feel for the jugular and distinguish it from the trachea. Do not cut the trachea. When you find the vein, pull the feathers back, so you can make a clean cut. Use forceful pressure to rupture the vein on the first slit. Do not saw. Once you have cut one side of the neck, do the same on the other to quicken the death. After his words, Aaron acted, and I braced myself to watch for the first time the slaughtering of another being.

There was silence as that first slit stained white feathers red. The warmth of the blood was visible in the deepness of color that streamed into a bucket below. But people were quick to follow the action with questions, and this set the tone for the rest of the afternoon. Dominating intermittent moments of solemnity was an overarching wave of vibrant curiosity, like that in a science classroom filled with kids completing their first dissection.

And so the four-hour slaughter began. A few others had done this before, and, familiar with the process, were quick to dive in. Some of the brave amateurs stepped up, assigning themselves to a specific task or simply grabbing a bird from the bin. Many of us, myself included, were content to observe before doing anything. I watched as my friend Liz slipped an inverted bird through the cone and unhesitatingly moved the knife down one side of the neck. "Have you done this before?" I asked, intimidated by her confidence. "Awhile ago," she said. "But it still hurts." The animal faded as we stood quietly.

Gradually, those who had initially held back jumped in to find their niche. When I finally gained the confidence to say, "My turn," Dylan had already moved one chicken through the process and most people were engrossed in the routine of the stages. This and the technical difficulty of the task before me subdued any remaining moral considerations; I had made up my mind that I needed to do this, and so I had to force myself to focus on doing it correctly. Don't screw up, I kept telling myself. Don't cut the trachea. I enlisted the help of Chris (remember my former crew leader?) to guide me. Preoccupying my mind only with his instructions, I did it.

The ability to rationalize this killing as a necessity does not make the animal's death any easier. A few long minutes pass before the bird dies, which is plenty of time to remember its aliveness, look into its ever-more weary eyes, and question the humaneness of initiating this slow death instead of swiftly cutting off the head (rupturing the trachea apparently makes for tough, unpalatable meat because it violently tenses the muscles).

And I didn't even help with--though I witnessed--what I thought to be the most painful part: collecting the birds from the coop. This is the first step. Watching the birds noisily, frantically back away from a merciless hand as it reaches in for the next victim is a reminder that animals feel. They feel fear just as we do because they, too, know death. As we carried from the coop to the killing "floor" the next round of wrangled birds, I wondered whether their insides were knotting with anticipation. This is when the words of Peter Singer and the like begin to strangle your conscience like a grapevine. How can I kill something that coos so pitifully?

Scalding at a water temperature of 142 degrees Fahrenheit makes the feathers easier to remove

But once it's done, it's done. Having respectfully observed several somber minutes of spiritual contemplation and gratitude, you break from the suffocating grasp of the philosophical vine. With each of the following stages, the chicken's animal identity diminishes as it looks more like a hunk of edible meat--a welcome reminder that it lost its life for more than sheer curiosity. First the scalding, then the plucking, eviscerating (gut-removal), cleaning, and finally ice-bathing. The plucking was tedious, even with the help of other people, and the evisceration was almost chokingly technical. But with each step, I had the help of a fellow participant--both new and experienced--to see me through. Soon enough, my chicken looked ready for the roasting pan.

Though certainly not required or pressured, everyone took an active role in the slaughter. By the end, each person had killed at least one chicken. No one fell prey to squeamishness. And no one was overcome by the moral discomfort of the act. Surely everyone grimaced with ethical uncertainty when wielding the knife, as I had myself. But, as Dylan said, the fact that killing the bird made everyone cringe only enriched the humanity of the event as a whole.



We talked about all of these reflections at the end of the night when we closed the slaughter with a proper, shared meal made by our extraordinary hosts. Our slow food dinner featured--you guessed it--grilled chicken hearts. "It's the best part of the chicken," Aaron said. "They taste like really good hot dogs." He's right. But hot dogs aside, slipping a heart off one of the skewers being passed around our dinner circle and popping it into my mouth was the most perfectly symbolic tribute to our human and animal friends that I could have imagined. A mere educational experience transformed into a true communal ceremony.

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Having already expressed gratitude for the chickens, the only individuals left to thank before we left long after sunset were Aaron and Kara. As was the case with the chickens, words didn't feel like enough. If it hadn't been for them, I don't know when or where I would have had the opportunity to do this. As I reached to hug my friends and tinged my nostrils with the sour smell of soap and vinegar that failed to cover the lingering stench of chicken innards, I couldn't have felt more human.