A Lighthearted Look At The Dark Side Of Homesteading - Part 1

Homesteading is sort of like raising "free range" humans, but there are blood, sweat and tears involved that often go undisclosed. And poop, lots of poop. We are pulling off the glamorous Carhart coveralls and having a peek at the dirty underbelly of this lifestyle...

The decision to take up homesteading was not exactly well thought out for me. It was more like a year long panic attack. I had been bopping along "living the dream" when someone woke me up. I went from "I don't like the energy of guns, I don't want them in my home" to "OMG, I have neglected my responsibility to defend myself and my family my whole life! I have to get a gun NOW!" in a day. When the "flip-flop" is justified, it happens fast.

Next I had to be able to feed my family. In my little head that meant chickens. A milk cow some day, but chickens NOW. I had them in less than a week. Fresh eggs out of my back yard was not enough, I wanted to raise them for meat, I wanted my family to be able to butcher them. Not me, I have been known to pass out at the sight of blood. My husband and son were agreeable, and the deal was (and remains) I will incubate them, brood them, raise them up... then I will cook them. Between those last two phases - someone else must intervene.

After a couple of months, the big day arrived. Many youtubes had been watched, and my husband had helped his mom butcher chickens as a kid but that was many years ago now. I stayed in the house while the men began the grisly task. Within minutes, my son runs in the door with eyes as big as saucers. "Dad cut himself!" Behind him is my husband, his hand wrapped in the edges of his shirt and everything turning red. Chicken number three had done a ninja move and now my husband's thumb was considering running away and joining the circus.

I called the little health clinic at the end of our block. Understand that we lived in a tiny town back then, too. There was no doctor's office, there was this little building where once every 2 weeks a doctor would come and see patients for a day. If we had been thinking we would have planned to butcher on the day they were in, but we had not thought that far ahead. Fortunately, the Universe smiled on us and it just happened to be the day the doctor was there.

After putting my husband into the care of the doctor I headed back home. My son was waiting for me, ready for me to take over where my husband left off. I had a hearty laugh over that, then chased him out back to finish the chore. He gave me a look, but not a peep in argument.

Dinner that night was a little hard to choke down at first, if you can imagine. They had tried to do it the "easy way," just skinned them and filleted off the meat, so I breaded some up and made us chicken strips for dinner. We did eat them, and after the first rather gaggy bite or two, a realization crept into my head...

Years before, I had taken my first trip to Mexico. I was on business in San Diego and a few of us went to Tijuana for the day. I had been warned about being served dog or cat there so I insisted we eat at the Hard Rock Cafe where I could get some solid AMERICAN food. (Did I mention I was sort of an idiot? Probably still am?) The plate of strips came out and I took a bite... and nearly gagged. DOG!! They were trying to feed me dog! The texture was NOT right, it did not taste right... I ate my fries and spent a couple years telling my story of getting served dog in Tijuana.

At my dinner table, as I finally relaxed about who I was eating and tried to taste my food, I began apologizing to the Mexicans. I suddenly realized they had fed me the first fresh chicken I had eaten in so many years I did not recognize the feel or taste. For the "full circle" of this story, I need to fast forward to last spring. We were on the first vacation we had taken in years, and it is time to head home. We are SICK of restaurant food, even the expensive stuff is not as good as what we eat at home! So for the sake of getting on the road and saving a couple bucks, we went to Church's Fried Chicken. One bite of that nasty, factory farmed chicken and I was gagging and spitting it out... I ate my fries and now tell stories of being fed disgusting chicken by Church's...

Oh, and as for "the deed." There is this LOVELY family about 60 miles from here who run a USDA approved chicken processing plant. I go visit them annually. I hand them my birds, freshly blessed and thanked, I go get a nice coffee and pick up a few groceries. I come back and load my coolers with vacuum-sealed chickens, all ready for the freezer. If the day comes that we MUST butcher our own, we can. "We" of course being my husband and ANYONE else but me... but I like supporting these people, they are kind and respectful and trying to make a living. So is my husband, and his job requires two thumbs...

Last years chicks. Just about time to start the cycle again!