Ron Lang, post: 419033, member: 6445 wrote: ..Those were the best days of my life. Sure do miss grandpa.
My granny (and grandpa) always had chickens. I just assumed they were like feral cats and always "spontaneously generated" themselves into existence.
Chicken dinner on Sunday after church is a great memory. My grandpa was always at the house on Sundays and loved to "rassle" with us kids. If you were lucky to be around on the Saturday afternoon before you might get to see granny catch our Sunday dinner. She was quick death for the chicken of her choosing.
She would head out the back door with a coffee can of chicken scratch. They would flock around her with innocence as she scattered the contents. Then, with ninja stealth, a straightened out wire hangar (that usually hung by the back door) would magically appear from underneath her apron and....GAK!
By the time she drew the hooked and unsuspecting bird up closer her hand was already around its head. A quick twirl and a snap and it was over. The bird was no longer livestock; it was dinner. We never got tired of watching granny perform her magic. But you had to watch from around the corner of the garage...if she knew you were watching there was a good chance you might be drafted to help pluck the dead bird.
I would much rather eat chicken than pluck its feathers...
paden cash, post: 419041, member: 20 wrote: My granny (and grandpa) always had chickens. I just assumed they were like feral cats and always "spontaneously generated" themselves into existence.
Chicken dinner on Sunday after church is a great memory. My grandpa was always at the house on Sundays and loved to "rassle" with us kids. If you were lucky to be around on the Saturday afternoon before you might get to see granny catch our Sunday dinner. She was quick death for the chicken of her choosing.
She would head out the back door with a coffee can of chicken scratch. They would flock around her with innocence as she scattered the contents. Then, with ninja stealth, a straightened out wire hangar (that usually hung by the back door) would magically appear from underneath her apron and....GAK!
By the time she drew the hooked and unsuspecting bird up closer her hand was already around its head. A quick twirl and a snap and it was over. The bird was no longer livestock; it was dinner. We never got tired of watching granny perform her magic. But you had to watch from around the corner of the garage...if she knew you were watching there was a good chance you might be drafted to help pluck the dead bird.
I would much rather eat chicken than pluck its feathers...
One summer I took to a particular hog, I called him Brewster. I fed him and played with him. My grandfather raised many hogs and as a kid I was scared of most. But not Brewster, I can't really remember why. The next summer I came up.as usual and my first breakfast with grandpa that summer he asked me how I liked my bacon. I said it great grandpa and then he told me it was Brewster. I said well grandpa Brewster sure tastes good maybe I should care for all your hogs.
To this day some 30 years later when ever I survey a farm and catch a wiff of the farm it takes me back to trout fishing, snapping snaps with grandma, and that dirt floor. I swear that was the cleanest dirt floor I've ever seen.
When I was too young to go to school a local hardware store would get in a shipment of baby chicks shortly before Easter. They would give one to a little kid if the parent/grandparent present said it was OK. I got one and named her Glenna. A few months later Glenna disappeared and I knew why. The first time we had chicken I asked if this was Glenna. I was told "Yes." I asked the next time we had chicken and received the same answer. I think we were eating on her for several months because I would ask the same question and get the same answer every time. She tasted great.
Holy Cow, post: 419059, member: 50 wrote: When I was too young to go to school a local hardware store would get in a shipment of baby chicks shortly before Easter. They would give one to a little kid if the parent/grandparent present said it was OK. I got one and named her Glenna. A few months later Glenna disappeared and I knew why. The first time we had chicken I asked if this was Glenna. I was told "Yes." I asked the next time we had chicken and received the same answer. I think we were eating on her for several months because I would ask the same question and get the same answer every time. She tasted great.
I had a neighbor years ago that had four daughters that were "stair-stepped" in age. And they all were members of FFA and they all raised hogs. Beautiful hogs. Long and happy hogs. And they would all win ribbons and get auctioned and away they would go in a trailer to their "forever home".
When the youngest girl came up through the ranks she too raised a beautiful hog. The hog's name was Maribelle. Instead of letting her go to someone else at the auction, my neighbor bought her back himself. Maribelle's "forever home" was the deep freeze in the well house via the custom butcher. Even though his daughters knew very well what eventually became of their prize pigs, they at least didn't have to see the end results. Maribelle was different and came home in pieces wrapped in white butcher paper. None of the girls would touch any of the meat.
I guess it didn't help that their father had taken a marker and written "Maribelle" on every package of pork in the freezer. I can report that Maribelle was one fine eatin' Poland-China...right down to the cracklins. 😉
