We sent our meat chickens to poultry heaven this weekend where they are perpetually pecking at organic non-GMO corn, napping in warm sunshine, eating baby grasshoppers, and dust bathing with the spirit in the sky. Bless their little hearts.
It was hard. I loved these little chickens. They came to us yellow, fuzzy, and one day old and I got to know them over the 8 weeks they were alive and called this farm home. We started three breeds of meat chickens this spring because we dearly love a roasted and spatchcocked chicken once a week and we didn’t know which breed we would prefer — cornish-x,
Setting these guys in the killing cone was quite sad for me and watching them bleed out was tragic but I think our food shouldn’t come easy. Why should it? It doesn’t come easy for the wild ones. Why should it be effortless for me? I took my time while we were butchering. It felt important to me that each bird went into the killing cone feeling peaceful and calm. I held each one until they were quiet and comfortable and placed them gently in. People ask me all the time how I can reconcile myself with this work, with animal husbandry
I never talk about this and maybe I should talk about it more (or maybe not) but I have a thyroid disease that I manage with medication. I also manage it to a large degree with my diet. I eat meat and vegetables. I eat some fruit when it is in season in my own orchards and gardens. On rare occasions I eat grains in the form of rice or quinoa, I consider it a treat. I can tolerate some legumes but not all. I do not consume any soy products. I avoid corn like the plague. I eat whole foods, never processed foods. I do not consume any dairy — though I believe I could tolerate dairy if I had my own milk goats or a milk cow which I am thinking about acquiring. Milking
If I were to cut animal proteins and fats out of my diet there would be hardly anything left for me to eat. I’m not sharing this because I feel a need to justify how I live and how I eat. I do what I want. But I do want to convey that this is not easy for me. It is not easy to care for and love my livestock, to make sure it lives well and dies well. It is satisfying work and it is difficult
I am proud to farm. I come from a long line of farmers. Farming is in my blood. One of the greatest tragedies of my life is not owning a piece of the family homestead in Saskatchewan which was sold off and absorbed into a megafarm instead of staying in the family — my grandparents raised six daughters in that glorious dirt beneath that living sky and none of them wanted to grow wheat. My younger sister and I lament this as we lean towards middle-age and feel our souls yearn for more topsoil, more space, more autonomy.
And maybe that is at the root of all of this. Autonomy. The right to live my life fully, to answer to nobody but my own conscience and the God I place my faith in, to eat what I need to eat to nourish my body, mind, and soul, to move beyond surviving and to thrive. To thrive.
We had a great weekend here. We thrived. Every Sunday in the summer months around five o’clock I suffer a small trauma when Robbie loads his gear in the truck and heads back to McCall for work. These 36 hours we have together on the weekends before he starts actively jumping fire are so damn sweet, so damn fleet. Absence truly makes the heart grow fonder. As the growing season continues here I’m spending more of my life out on the land, on my land, tending to it, coaxing life from it, intertwining myself with the beauty that rises up from decay and death. My hands are dirty and I feel no guilt. My belly is full and I feel no shame. I know who I am and I know my place.