Cutting up chickens

I spent yesterday afternoon and evening cutting up chickens. First, at a workshop about poultry health, a veterinarian from the University taught us to perform autopsies on chickens with the goal of protecting the rest of the flock from illness. When the practical portion of the workshop came, my husband and I donned gloves and plastic aprons and cut into the dead chicken that had been flopped onto the table in front of us.

It was a hen that had been culled from a large conventional laying operation and then donated to the University for our workshop. You could tell that she had always lived in a cage because her claws were so long they were wavy and reminded me of some strange variety of hair. This chicken did not have much chance to walk around in her life. The vet said that she had laid maybe 300 eggs in her two-year life. Her breastbone was very slightly curved with a variety of osteoporosis because she had been putting calcium from her body into her eggs to form the shells. According to the vet, this chicken might have had a couple of good laying years ahead of her, but all the hens are culled at the same age.

We cut up the chicken as the vet told us and examined all her organs. I had not really been looking forward to this, but I was surprised by the gratitude that I felt as I learned the details of the way her body lived. When we began to discuss her reproductive system, I knew I was in the presence of something holy. Within her rested half a dozen egg yolks already quite large, and dozens if not hundreds of tiny buds that would have become yolks in time. It was like looking at the place where spirit could become flesh. I was humbled to think that even though this bird had lived in such a confined and unnatural situation, the force of life was pushing through her with vigor.

As soon as the workshop was finished, I sped to my friend’s house to help cut a bunch of his whole chickens into ready-to-cook parts so they could fit in his freezer. While chatting with friends, I tried to find the perfect place to separate the drumstick from the thigh without applying too much force or poking around tediously for the joint. I felt the size of the breasts and sliced them from the keel bone and ribs.

Unbeknownst to me, my hands had become obsessed with the job. The next morning, when my children came to snuggle me, I felt the muscles under their skin and found myself matter-of-factly assessing the size of the meat there just as I had judged the size of the chicken breasts. The same thing happened when I patted my husband. It was not a romantic thought. A bit later, when my husband asked me what I was thinking, I answered honestly. I was wondering what would be the most efficient way to cut through my knee and separate my calf from my thigh. (Probably it would be easiest to start from the inner back corner so it would be easier to slip the knife between the bones.) It did not feel terribly creepy to me at the time, just practical.

This evening, when I told my story to folks at worship group, one friend looked queasy, another said I could skip our parting hug this week, and one exclaimed with delight, “Oh! You're a kinesthetic learner! You learn with your hands!” He is right, of course. With my hands, I am learning about how to handle chicken, and I'm also learning about the art of living in a vulnerable body that will eventually fail. I am learning about the kinship of all living things, and I am learning that the sacred extends into messy minutia, even during times of deprivation and destruction. When spring comes, and we are raising chickens again, I never want to grow so busy or distracted that I forget my gratitude to them.