A Rooster of a Different Crow
Bully Rooster is now resting peacefully on the kitchen table. For this tale, I will let that be a Facebook FarmVille event. I pushed all the right buttons and, bingo. Dinner is served. Legal statutes are satisfied. The pelt is washed and the silver and gold feathers are shimmering with crafty potentials. The young hen and old hen flocks are once more calm and in danger of integration. How many eggs will I find in the nests today? Research in progress. Working the FarmVille joystick. . . My FarmVille buddies are working their joysticks, too, in hopes of catching up.
I am knocking wood like a pagan priest, but I still believe Silkie is a rooster of a different crow, both literally and figuratively. I never did have trouble telling the two crows apart. They were hatched within days of each other, but Bully's development was sounding pretty complete while Silkie was still acting surprised at the changes in his voice. He is crowing daily now, but I have yet to hear him crow before dawn or rush to greet visitors with adamant opinions. Attack somebody? Even when confronted with Bully's antagonism, I translated his response as, "Hey, I am a lover, not a fighter." I doubt Bully was able to actually fertilize any of the old hens. When they submitted to his attempts, he looked an awful lot like a weiner dog humping a great dane. The show was more amusing than productive. The old hens didn't submit anywhere near as often as they reminded him they were bigger than him. I suspect Bully's female brood mates are over-fertilized. Most of them are already bigger than he was, but I am not sure they fully realize it yet. The Bantams and Buttercups are close to the biggest hens in the yard, but far from ready to challenge even the smallest of the Old Hens in the pecking order. FarmVille never educated me on just how seriously literal, outside the box chickens take their pecking orders.
I have been using Silkie as Bully bait. Bully was my 2nd rooster. Silkie the 3rd. The first rooster, Bertha, peacefully accepted my dinner invitation long before the sleepy Urbanites were aware he wasn't just a new design of police siren. Armed with that vast experience and all my acquired 2nd hand knowledge, I theorated that another rooster is the best rooster bait there is. I have been fetching Silkie from the rabbit hutch each morning and combing his flightless feathers while we listened to Bully crowing from the tree near my patio perch. This morning we simply enjoyed the flightless feather combing in peace and quiet. I believe he has started telling me where to comb by moving the itchy spot toward the dinner fork I have been using as a comb.
I don't want to invite Silkie to dinner just yet, but I don't much trust my knowledge of roosters, either. Nor do I want to risk another round of Urban Experts stating the obvious no solutions to offer. I am making plans to carry him on the four hour drive to explore the inherited properties with me. Zoom, zoom. . . The two-bitch campsite (me and my dog) is making room for a new rider. Silkie is already familiar with his carrying case. Guess I can take motels off my accomodations list. . . I doesn't want the job of working out a fair pet fee for a rooster. That gets messy enough travelling with a support dog and negotiations are not my strong suit. I am a take-it-or-leave-it spirit. KISS. KISS. Keep It Simple, Sweetie.
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I bet it tastes great. I'm a coward and couldn't do the job myself. I do know that my food once moved though and I know that a free life is better than a caged one... Still...yeah. I can do enough other things that I don't beat myself up over it.
How are you cooking it? A roast? Fried? Soup?
I have had many, many a campfire debate with vega-whatevers over the ethics of eating self-propelled life forms. If food can run away from hunger, it has a right to die of old age. Killing plants is ethical. They can't run away or cry out loud.
The hurdle between that campfire, meatinarian bravado and actually processing my own meat really has proved more difficult than I could ever have imagined. My farm friends tell me I need to quit naming my food. . . My chicken processing instructor wonders why anyone would allow something they don't love into their bodies. My foodite buds tell me to stick to the all-natural, organic food which grows in wrappers. Round and round I go. . .
However messy this particular jump of that hurdle. . . I think I'll roast Bully. He isn't much bigger than a cornish hen from the store freezer. I figure about 30 minutes at 35oF. No seasoning. I am still testing to see if homegrown chicken really is a different meat from commercially produced. The chickens my instructor helped me process in her space indicates that not only is there a difference, I raise exceptionally healthy poultry. She had never seen such a healthy Rock Cornish chicken. They are known for growing fast and big enough to break their own bones. 6 months from egg to family dinner table.