Real-Life (and -Death) Learning

Warning: The images and text in this blog might be disturbing to some readers, particularly children. Please read with caution!

"I never let schooling interfere with my education." 
--Mark Twain 

The girls and I had an even less-conventional-than-usual week of school last week. Our schedule specified that our science lessons would focus on animal identification and classification. Instead, we ended up studying the innards and orneriness of roosters.

What happened was this: Over the previous couple of weeks, one of our Delaware roosters, Obadiah Slope, had been getting more and more aggressive, both with the hens and with Segi and Simi.  He hadn't attacked anyone yet, but we were concerned enough to start keeping a close eye on him. Then Monday morning as the girls and I were wrapping up our chores, he cornered Simi, circling her and chasing her into the barn. (Luckily she made it inside before he flew at her.) I knew then that this guy was going into the roasting pan--and soon. That night, I told G-P that the girls and I would set aside our school schedule the next day so we could butcher our erstwhile friend. G-P graciously volunteered to go into work late so that he could catch and dispatch of Obadiah himself. (I have to admit that although I'd talked real big about taking care of everything on my own,  I was immensely relieved not to have to actually wield the machete blow.) To my surprise, the girls walked with their dad through the whole process and never turned their heads. Looks like they really are turning into farm girls!

Bringing in the Carcass 

By 7:30 a.m., our carcass was ready to go. We spent the morning, scalding, plucking, gutting, and chopping. And learning! I invited the girls to participate much more actively in the butchering process this time. And because we had set aside all our plans for the day, we had plenty time to inspect how the feathers attached to the skin; to study what joints look like and how they work; to identify most of the internal organs and discuss their functions; and even to conduct some research into why roosters "turn mean." (We learned, of course, that what humans interpret as roosters turning mean is often a rooster simply being especially devoted to doing his most important jobs: protecting and defending his flock.)

Scalding

Plucking

Examining the Internal Organs

Examining the Joints

A Major Perk of Our Rooster Practicum: Dinner!

The crisis we faced at the beginning of last week highlighted the fact that if there is one thing homesteading homeschoolers can count on, it is that circumstances will sometimes get in the way of even the best-laid lesson plans.  Luckily, one of the perks of homeschooling is that a derailed schedule can be a just as much an opportunity as it is challenge! That was certainly the case for us in this instance. Indeed, I think I can safely say that the girls and I both learned more from our hands-on exploration of the ill-fated Obadiah than we could have gotten from several textbook chapters on chicken anatomy and behavior.

A key to getting a good education, it seems to me, is being open to "learning where we're planted"-- taking advantage of the learning opportunities that come up in everyday life, even (or perhaps especially) when they interfere with our formal education.

Thank you, Obadiah, for our tutorial. And for dinner!

Coming of Age in the Coop

Those of you who have been reading this blog for a while might remember that last May, a couple of shoe-size boxes filled with tiny chirping balls of fluff arrived at Little Bent Creek Farm. While some of those chicks have gone to other farms and a few have flown on to that Great Chicken Coop in the Sky, most of them are still with us. But they are no longer our "little ones." Just in the past couple of weeks, each of the three roosters (one Ameraucana and two Delawares) have started to crow. And as if to give their suitors a good reason to sing, the hens are finally laying!

It feels like it's been a long time in coming. It was 24 weeks ago that we started feeding, watering, and cleaning up after these birds. And--ask my girls if you don't believe me--they demand A LOT of all three! But to see Peppercorn (one of the Barred Rocks) climb up into that nesting box and labor to produce her first perfect little egg, makes it all worth it. We are especially appreciative of our young ones coming of age at this time since our older hens (the Rhode Island Reds) have slowed down their egg production radically during recent weeks due to the changes in sunlight hours that accompany the changing of the seasons. (You can read more about the laying cycles of hens in this University of Kentucky publication.)

The cockerels-turned-roosters are marvelous: dignified, beautiful, and valuable guardians of the flock. But, as on most small farms, the "mama hens" are the most treasured fowl around here--providing us with nutritious eggs; spunky but gentle friends; and perhaps next spring, more tiny balls of fluff.

The Hen

by Oliver Herford

Alas! my Child, where is the Pen 


That can do Justice to the Hen? 


Like Royalty, She goes her way, 


Laying foundations every day, 


Though not for Public Buildings, yet 


For Custard, Cake and Omelette. 


Or if too Old for such a use 


They have their Fling at some Abuse, 


As when to Censure Plays Unfit 


Upon the Stage they make a Hit, 


Or at elections Seal the Fate 


Of an Obnoxious Candidate. 


No wonder, Child, we prize the Hen, 


Whose Egg is mightier than the Pen.

Oh, Captain! Bye, Captain!

There are some graphic photos in this post. Please view with discretion. 

We had another first this week. Unfortunately, it was not among those we have gleefully anticipated, but rather, was one that we dreaded: slaughtering our rooster. Around 3 weeks ago, Captain Haddock started developing a nasty habit of attacking his caregivers. At first it was just occasional, but as time went on, he became more and more aggressive. It got so bad that the girls were afraid to go out to the barnyard, and scattering scratch became a nerve-wracking task. At one point, he actually grabbed our 5-year-old's shorts with his beak and proceeded to give her a 6-inch scratch down her leg. On his last day of freedom, I was walking to the coop to check for eggs when he zoomed in at me from behind. When I sought refuge inside the coop, he cornered me there, evidently hoping to peck my eyes out. I grabbed my cell phone from my pocket and called my husband, G-P. "Come save me!" I yelled. "He's gonna kill me!" My generally nonchalant man was there in a flash, waging a dramatic pursuit of my attacker. He soon had him cornered and caged. Captain Haddock had sealed his fate: he was headed for the roasting pan.

A day and half later, we hauled Captain Haddock down to the pasture, and G-P did the dastardly deed. I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical of the claims he'd been making that "I saw this done all the time back in Nigeria. It's no big deal." But he really did carry out the task like a pro. I was beaming with pride (and relief that I didn't have to do it) as I watched. Now it was my turn. We took the carcass to the kitchen. (My mother later informed me that her mother used to do this part in the yard, gently hinting that I should, too. In hindsight I have to admit that it's probably a better setting.) I dunked him in scalding water and plucked the feathers. LOTS of them. It turns out that our Mr. Big-Britches was mostly feathers.  In fact, he both looked and tasted a lot more like the little chickens I had eaten in rural Haiti than the ones for sale at the grocery store down the street. Of course none of us minded that one bit. The wilder the better is a general rule of thumb at our table. And if that means small and tough, so be it.

The girls, far from being squeamish or upset (as we'd feared they might be), watched attentively as I pulled out the innards and identified for them the liver, stomach, gizzard, heart, intestines, and lungs. We dissected a couple of items and decided to look up more information on chicken anatomy later.

After cleaning the carcass in cool water, we slipped it into the frig until the next day, when I roasted it for dinner. It was amazing: dark, juicy, slightly chewy, and delicious. We feasted, thanking Captain Haddock for the pleasure of his crows the nourishment of his meat. 

Hopefully, we'll find a sane, friendly rooster to take the Captain's place sometime soon. In the meantime, we'll all enjoy going out to the barnyard again without fearing for our safety.

Jennie's Roasted Free-Range Chicken

Preheat your oven to 375 degrees.
Place the chicken in a roasting pan and rub the cavity with a mixture of:

• olive oil or butter
• fresh or dried herbs, such as:
• thyme
• rosemary
• oregano
• parsley
• basil
• fresh or granulated garlic
• salt and pepper.

Place in the cavity:

• the juice of half a lemon
• a chunk of onion
• a piece of celery.

Rub the outside of the chicken with more of the olive oil mixture.  Bake for approximately 20 minutes per pound of chicken, or until the meat is at least 165 degrees, drizzling occasionally with more olive oil or butter.

Cock-a-doodle-doo! (Or was that Kèkèréèke?)

We had another exciting "first" on our farm today. Just as the sun was beginning to rise this morning, I thought I heard from where I sat at my desk a faint call coming from the barnyard. I didn't pay much attention at first, but after hearing it a couple more times, I hopped up and opened the back door. And there it was, plain as pancakes: "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" Our 20-week-old rooster, Captain Haddock, had finally mastered his crow! The girls were soon down with me admiring our valiant feathered friend and celebrating this new rite of passage. And a rite of passage it is, both for him and for us. He is now the undisputed king of the barnyard, and we now have a bona-fide farm. (Is there anything, after all, that makes a place feel like a farm so much as a rooster's morning crow?) 


My husband, prone as he is to humbling the elated, quickly corrected us when he heard the news. "Captain Haddock didn't say 'Cock-a-doodle-doo,'" he asserted. "He said, 'Kèkèréèke'" (pronounced “kaykayrayaykay”). Of course, he was right, according to what he was taught growing up Yorùbá in Nigeria. I listened again to the Captain. Gee, I thought, it doesn't sound much like either "cock-a-doodle-doo" or "kèkèréèke." This started me thinking about all the different ways people around the world have interpreted the sound of the rooster crow. When I lived in Haiti, I learned that roosters say "koukouyoukou" or "kikiriki," depending on what part of the country you're in. Here is a small sampling of the way the cock's crow is pronounced in other languages around the globe (according to the websites www.yawiktionary.com and en.wikipedia.org):

Arabic Bosnian, Bulgarian, Croatian, Hungarian	Kuku-kookoo, kuku-reekoo, or esku kookoo Kukuriku
Chinese	Cantonese: Gokogoko    Mandarin: Gou gou
Dutch	Kukeleku
French	Cocorico
German	Kickeriki
Greek	Koukouríkou
Hindi	Kukruukuu
Icelandic	Gaggala gaggala gú (my favorite!)
Indonesian Italian	Kukuruyuk Chiicchirichí
Japanese	kokekokkō
Norwegian	Kykeliky
Polish Russian	Kukarekú Kukuryku
Spanish Tamil	Quiquiriquí Kokkara-ko-ko
Thai	Ake-e-ake-ake

So is there anything we can learn from these various interpretations of rooster crows? The first thing that strikes me is how very similar so many of them are to one another, a reminder perhaps of just how similar and related we humans are to each other despite all the distances and divisions between us. One of the most obvious commonalities among the pronunciations above is that nearly all of them start with the "k" sound. This surprised me, as it's hard for me to hear that sound at the beginning of Captain Haddock's call.  Could it be that humans have so often interpreted the rooster's crow this way not so much because of the sound the rooster actually makes, but because of how suddenly and boldly he begins? A possibility to ponder. The second thing about this collection that strikes me is how out of step the English interpretation is with most of the rest. I guess that's not too surprising, given English-speakers' affinities for the non-metric system and fluffy white bread. But surely there is a more sophisticated explanation for this deviation from the norm. (Our quirky “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” seems to come from the Gaelic “Cuc-a-dudal-du.”) Do let me know if you come up with your own etymological explanation.

In the meantime, I think we'll all agree that's enough ruminating and crowing for one day.