Chicken - and practicing 'farm to table' in St. John's

“Two of our chickens matured into roosters... So they’ve got to go.”

This was too much for my pre-caffeinated brain to handle. It was a damp Saturday morning and I was in Bradley Dyer's backyard in the center of St. John’s. Chickens were scampering across the lawn. In this garden a two-story coop housed a gaggle of chickens. There were signs that a green thumb was present: a lush garden, twin compost heaps, a greenhouse. I closed the gate behind me as Brad continued. “We’re going to kill the two roosters. I’m going to kill one; you’re going to kill the other.” I swallowed so loud Brad probably heard it, because he laughed, “This is not a spectator sport, you know.”

Plymouth Rock chickens in Bradley Dyer's St. John's backyard

Weeks before I had expressed interest in how chickens were slaughtered, which is why Pam, Brad's wife, had hurriedly emailed me the night before to let me know the next day's grim activities. But actually killing one myself? This I hadn’t expected. Brad emerged from his greenhouse carrying a dog kennel housing two young roosters. He explained that the neighbours didn’t care much for roosters; they already had alarm clocks. Also, two roosters will fight for dominance and mate with the hens and generally be a nuisance. “And so they must go,” Brad said matter-of-factly. Sixteen weeks prior, the chickens had been purchased as chicks, when you couldn’t easily tell the boys from the girls. Now it was a different story; the boys clearly stuck out. Luckily, Plymouth Rock chickens are a dual-purpose breed, meaning they are valued for both their eggs and meat. Obviously, the boys don't lay eggs - so their value is more singular. 

Brad set the kennel down and with a docile voice told the roosters that everything would be alright. This reassured me. Maybe everything would be alright...

But just at that moment the kennel door opened the action began. One rooster escaped and I was tasked with catching it. A chase ensued as I dashed after it. Catching it was not easy, much to my chagrin and Pam's delight (she watched the fracas from the living room window). But finally the rooster was mine.
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Now... About killing the bird. On this subject I’ll avoid indulging in details. Besides, much has been written about the experience of killing an animal and in this vein I feel I have nothing more to contribute (on that topic, I recommend reading about journalist Michael Pollan’s foray into pig hunting in Northern California). That said, I did learn about something very simple: how a living chicken becomes food. I'll share an abridged version of how we “harvested” the bird, in jot-notes.

Slaughtering

• The overall aim was to end the rooster’s life in the most humane way possible.

• To start, the chicken was wrapped in a blanket and held upside down. This had a calming effect, as if the bird was spellbound.
• With a razor sharp knife, one firm slice confirmed a deep cut through the jugular, located directly above the jaw bone. Its trachea, toward the throat, was avoided.
• The bird, still upside down, was allowed to bleed out onto the grass.
• After being bled out (about 15 seconds), its neck was broken by hand - a surprisingly easy maneuver that instantly killed the bird. Its head was removed.

Plucking

• A large pot scalding water (not boiling) had been prepared and was waiting for us.
• The dead chicken was dunked into the scalding water and submerged for about 10 seconds.
• Once removed, the chicken was hung upside down by a string and plucked by hand, careful all the while not to remove flesh. Feathers were collected in a bucket.
• Once all feathers were removed, a blowtorch was used to singe off wayward hairs.
• The chicken was untied and the feet were cut off and discarded (although some keep the feet for cooking).

Gutting

• First, a small oil gland (called the uropygial gland) was cut off from the base of the tail.
• Then the abdominal cavity was entered from between the legs by making a small incision.
• The intestine was identified and with the razor sharp knife the cloaca (bird's version of an anus) was cut out, being very careful not to puncture it. It was hung freely by the intestinal tract once cut out.
• The chicken's innards were then separated from its rib cage by hand, working inside the cavity and up toward the neck. Caution was used not to rupture the gallbladder, whose flavour can taint the flesh.
• Subsequently, in a similar manner, the abdominal cavity was entered from the upper breast and the esophagus was separated from the inner membrane, working down towards the lower cavity.
• Eventually all innards were freed and pulled down and out from the cavity between thighs.

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Final steps

• The head, innards, and feet were discarded (although some keep the livers and feet for cooking).
• The feathers were put in the compost.
• Each bird was thoroughly washed under cold water and placed in a leak-proof plastic bag and placed in the fridge.
• A period of 24 hours passed until cooking commenced, allowing rigor mortis to pass and ensuring the meat would be at its tenderest once cooked.

Back in the Kitchen

Thinking back to that Saturday morning at Brad’s backyard, if any curious neighbours had been watching they would surely have been shaking their heads in wonder. We were butchering chickens in the middle of the city, after all - not in a rural farm or windowless abattoir as you might expect. But regardless of where we were, an amazing transformation had taken place: we had turned animals into food. This doesn’t seem like much, but somehow the weight of it settled on me as I thought about all the years I had been eating chicken without ever having killed one myself.

Cooking

I had to do something special. It was the least I could do for this bird that I had slaughtered, plucked, and gutted all by myself (under the watchful eye of Brad, of course.)

On a whim, I set the oven to 400F: it would be a roast. I covered the chicken in salt, pepper, and olive oil and place a lemon in its cavity along with sage, rosemary, and thyme from the garden. Then I roughly chopped two onions, some carrots and parsnip, coated them with oil, and piled them onto a baking tray. The chicken was then proudly placed on top and the whole works was place in the oven. A timer was set to one hour. It wasn’t a big bird, after all.

While the chicken was roasting, I chopped up some veg we pulled from the ground  at our family gardens in Holyrood. Beets, carrots, parsnips, potatoes, and garlic, along with more garden herbs. A good sprinkle of salt and pepper, a drizzle of olive oil and the smallest bit of balsamic vinegar. It was popped in the oven for the last 40 minutes of roasting.
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Halfway through, the chicken was basted and the veg got a splash of water to keep them from burning. Finally the whole works came out of the oven at the hour mark and the chicken was removed and covered in foil. At this point I went to work on the gravy.

My grandmother would be proud. I never make gravy but this turned out nothing short of delicious. What I did was simply take the leftover veg from the chicken roasting tray, put them over two burners on the stove, add one heaped tbsp of flour, mash up the veg and add a ½ cup of red wine and about 2 cups of vegetable stock. The mixture bubbled away for 10 minutes at which point I strained out the liquids: perfect gravy.

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Serving

The chicken was carved and the roast veg and meat were plated and drizzled with hot gravy. At first reluctant (this chicken didn’t come from the grocery store - how could it be any good!?), my concerns were instantly abated at the first bite. It was the most chicken-y chicken I had ever tasted. There wasn’t much flesh on its bones (this chicken hadn’t been cooped up and fattened with hormones, after all) but the flesh that was there was packed with flavour. The thighs were a little tougher than the store-bought variety - not surprising thinking back to the agility of the bird as I chased after it in the yard - but this did not take away from its overall quality.

​A fine rustic feast, perfectly fitting for my first farm-to-table accomplishment - and in a city, no less!

Acknowledgements: a huge thanks to Bradley Dyer for patiently waiting for me to catch one of his roosters, which he then aptly showed me how to humanely slaughter, pluck, and gut - redefining what’s meant by takeaway food.