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Culling old laying hens is not the easiest task on the farm. Heck, are there any easy tasks on the farm? (Shaye reflects… Shaye realizes that no, there aren’t any easy tasks on the farm… Shaye moves on with her life.). Heading into the thick of winter, if one has chickens, one must ask themselves:
Wash Eggs Like A Boss, Baby. Winter time is not a clean time on the farm. Just yesterday, as I was out throwing kitchen scraps to the pigs, I nearly face planted into the muck after my rubber boots got stuck in the deep sludge. There were slurping noises. And waving arms. And perhaps a
It’s funny, but here on the farm, meat doesn’t come in packages. “Whole, skinless, boneless, chicken breasts”. Nope. And as convenient as that would be at times, it just ain’t the way the good Lord designed in. Chickens come with: 2 wings 2 legs and 2 thighs 2 breasts 2 “oysters” 2 feet 1 neck
Summer has a bit of magic that swirls around the fringes of complete insanity. Just when I think I’ll surely hole up and die of exhaustion, there are teeny moments of pure, well, magic that revive my soul enough to complete another task… another chore… another harvest. While I was snuggled up to Sally’s flank,
Remember that beautiful chicken run that we built a few weeks ago? It’s still lovely. The honeysuckle is growing. The chickens are sun bathing. The gardens aren’t being eaten. But. But there are three…four…or five gangsters that refuse to play by the rules. They come out. I throw them back in. They come out again.
I may be no pro, but I’m at least somewhat an old(er…ish) hat at raising meat chickens this go round. This past weekend, we welcomed our fourth batch of meat birds to the homestead. Because Mama’s gotta have her chicken, man. I won’t say that I particularly love raising meat chickens. Fine. I’ll say it. Meat
I hate free range chickens. There. I said it. Let the stoning begin. But first, perhaps I should clarify. Let’s just say that I lived out in the middle of a seventy three acre pasture. In said pasture, there was nothing but native grasses, and perhaps one bovine. I lived in a hut with no
Chicken feet. The feets of the chicken. Boys and girls, that’s what we’re talking about today. Now, don’t go gettin’ all grossed out. Y’all are familiar with our ideals for our farm. Nothing gets wasted. And why on Earth Americans wasted these wonderful morsels is beyond me. We’ll eat fast food but we won’t simmer chicken
I’ll pretend like I didn’t spend the better part of two hours writing out a deliciously goal-filled post before my WordPress crashed and took with it every last word. I’ll also pretend like I didn’t cry out to the heavens in a form of protest after said crash happened. After all, there is far bigger