T
here’s nothing redder than blood, especially when it’s speckling the bright green of full Summer grass. The blood fell from plastic cones suspended from a tree, into an old oil pan. Some fell on my toes, a lot got on my hands; not much got on my clothes.
Chickens rapidly turn from living creatures to anonymous food. Within fifteen or so minutes, they go from being living, communal animals squawking and shuffling around a pen, to stripped down forms sans feathers, sans guts, sans head, bagged and ready to be frozen. This was my first time slaughtering chickens; I only killed two, but prepped a lot for death, and handled their mortal remains extensively. It wasn’t so bad, really. But I’ll be thinking about it.
We just watched The Silence of the Lambs last night, which features a story about lambs being slaughtered, and their screams following a young woman throughout her life. What is the silence of the lambs? It is the peace we long for when our desires are fulfilled. The question posed by the film is “What will you do to satiate your desires?” There are two chickens sitting in my freezer now.