Processing chickens is not my favorite way to spend a sunny Saturday morning, but it’s not the worst either. The work is oddly satisfying in its own way. There’s a clear beginning and a clear end and I’m dog tired by the time it’s all over.
This was the first year we processed chickens with our nearly two year old daughter June present.
At first, I debated whether to let her witness where her food comes from. I wondered if her young age meant she’d be oblivious to what was happening or whether she’d be scarred for life.
In the end, I decided to let her watch because butchering animals is the reality of eating meat.
I see no reason to sugar coat this reality. If she decides one day that she can’t accept these practices, then she’s welcome to become a vegetarian and I’ll be the first one to offer her a tofurkey burger.
But I’d rather she be made aware that an animal’s life was sacrificed so that we may eat meat than grow up thinking poultry grows on trees…..the chicken tender tree. I see no “right” age to introduce this grisly concept.
Here she is, all smiles right before daddy slit some birds’ throats.
And here she is right after…
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