A Log on the Fire and a Rooster in the Pot

Rooster waiting for the cone to be shortened.

Happy New Year! Today we finally got down to the business of making fresh chicken stock. Plucking up a rooster from the flock in the pen was too easy, as was lugging the hefty guy down to the killing cone I had fashioned from a piece of tin roofing, but the killing part was not easy at all. First, the cone was too narrow. Wider than those seen in catalogs, it was either too narrow or too long to be workable with a bird the better part of a year old. So I "rolled up" the bottom "hem" of the cone and the rooster's neck had plenty of stretch to it.

At about that point I started to get queasy. As such the camera got put away and I just worked to get through the job. First problem: if I'm to make cuts along the neck to drain the blood, how do I do that without the blood pouring all over me? In twisting the rooster's neck to the side to make the cut, I exposed what I imagine was his windpipe which bubbled up with air. At least hitting the jugular vein only took one cut, and I left the carcass draining into the bucket while I set about heating water.

Okay, so I should have started the water quite a bit earlier, but I was a little unsure if I would actually have a dead carcass to hot-dip and so I postponed that step. Then it appeared that the barbecue's gas tank was empty (no, I don't have a gauge on it yet, silly me), so I figured I'd skip the dipping and simply skin the bird. Since most of the fat is in the skin, we know it's better to eat skinless chicken, and even though we've been told that rooster is tough so we're just cooking it down for the broth, skipping the skin will still be better for us. So we did.

After the trouble I had slitting the bird's throat, I was pleased that the rest of the operation went smoothly. Well, except when I was cleaning the severed neck to put in the pot and found myself washing out a vein clogged with coagulated blood. My stomach flipped again then, but I guess a little queasiness just testifies to my humanity when I'm slaughtering meat for food?

Anyway, now that I'm in from bedding down the animals and the chicken has been simmering in the crock pot for some time, my appetite is being whetted. When I just checked on the broth I discovered that the "tough" rooster meat shreds easily with a spoon. Although that suggests that the meat may not be terribly tough, I do remember the first chicken we processed--when Luther and Molly were pups and killed one of those exciting flapping animals. That chicken was chewier than the proverbial shoe leather.

Whatever the outcome, I'm excited to be broadening our cuisine. Frozen goat and fish are fine, and from the farm we've had endless varieties of quiche, but winter is the time for chicken stock, and we know exactly where this rooster has been and what he's been eating. No hormones, no antibiotics, no inhumane conditions. Yum!