How to Kill a Chicken in Three Generations by Liz Masoner
Some family traditions are passed along from one generation to the next. Some new ones created over the years to join in the passing along to the next generation's offspring. Then, as Liz shares in this story, some family traditions are modified and changed while being passed along the family chain ...
How far my family has come! In just three short generations, we have moved from the back hills and into the city. We have moved from small farms and walking to town to offices and nice cars. My Grandfather dropped out of 1st grade but my brother and I both graduated college. So many changes have taken place since my Grandparents' time but I think what shows the changes most of all is the way we kill a chicken.
My Great Aunt killed chickens by first catching them (a feat in itself) and then chopping their heads off with an ax. It was my Grandmother's observation of one of these operations as a young woman that brought about my family's first leap. Chickens may be stupid but they know that struggling greatly increases their chances of survival and so when my Great Aunt tried to hold the chicken still with one hand and swing the axe with the other she missed. The chicken was spared as the axe sliced into my Great Aunt's big toe, neatly severing it from her foot. My Grandmother, about 14 at the time, was the fastest runner and was so dispatched to run through the woods and over the hills (literally, I promise) to the store for turpentine and bandages. When my Grandmother returned the turpentine was mixed with ash and used to "glue" the toe back onto my Great Aunt's foot. It is hard to believe but true that the toe did heal and it was only slightly crooked for the experience.
I guess that incident had a lasting effect on my Grandmother because as a young wife and mother she refrained from attempting to behead chickens with an axe. Instead, she made use of the .22 rifle my Grandfather had somehow managed to purchase for their first child, my Mother. Grandmother would stand at the edge of the fence to the chicken pen, raise the rifle to her shoulder, and fire. Anne Oakley had nothing on my Grandmother. Each shot would neatly sever the chosen chicken's neck, leaving a dead chicken for my Mother to retrieve from the pen and no severed toes to be healed.
While my Mother thought this was a much better way to kill chickens than my Great Aunt's way that she had been told about, my Mother was not fond of dealing with animals. Decidedly unusual for someone who grew up on a farm and hired out to pick cotton every season but true never the less. So, after high school my Mother-to-be moved off the farm and into town. In town she was able to take the art of killing chickens to new heights. She let someone else do it! This is a firm rule my Mother has followed ever since. If there is to be chicken for dinner then it is bought at the grocery store where someone else has already killed, plucked, and gutted the chicken.
With my Mother's "chicken rule" in place I grew up seeing live chickens only at the petting zoo or Grandmother's farm. So as I became a wife and mother I too followed in my Mother's footsteps and let someone else kill the chicken. However, as a working mother I have taken my Mother's rule even further. I not only let someone else kill the chicken, I let them cook it too! Heat and serve chicken is a staple in my household. Now my daughter is nearly six years old and wanting to learn how to cook. Considering the history of the women in my family I have to wonder what she, as the fourth generation, will do in regards to the killing of chickens.
About This Story's Author:
©2003 Liz Masoner
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