My dad had chickens when he was a boy just pre world war 2. He was obviously really emotionally affected by them as he couldn't bear it when they were killed by a relative for food for the family. (I feel so vague as I do not know who killed the chickens. I am not able to ask my dad such questions as he died in 2000). So when we had chicken sometimes my mum would explain that dad didn't feel like having it or wasn't keen on eating it at a particular mealtime, 'because of when he was a boy'. He loved meat, yet chicken was different. We had chickens when I was a child too, lots of them. Ducks also. We didn't kill them for meat. We enjoyed their eggs and their individual personalities for some years.
I boiled a free range chicken carcass late this morning. For about an hour with herbs. When it was done, I took some time to drain off the herbs, skin and little bony bits and all that fat floating around in the water. It smelt good. It felt good to be doing something SLOW. I was amazed at how much water I used during the process of creating the stock. Particularly for the cleaning of the equipment afterwards! My thoughts were back to the power of water once more and the floods....
I looked out the kitchen window and noticed Flo who is the most vulnerable of our three rescued hens, huddled and asleep standing on one leg. Looking sad. It was raining. I was picking bits of chicken meat off the bones. I looked at the meat and looked at Flo. A very real moment. When I was vegetarian from about the age of 14 to 30 years, I couldn't even begin to contemplate such a gross activity of picking flesh off of bones.
I still wonder at how I do it now, because I am so impressioned by my vegetarian years. All I know is that I needed to start eating some meat occasionally. It is a long story and one which took a lot of thought and adjustment on my part. I choose the meat I eat carefully and with gratitude.
Flo is quite poorly, I am not sure how long she has left. She has problems swallowing which the vet thinks could be to do with a blockage of hardened food. Or it could be a growth. She is quite obviously depressed, the weather has brought her down too. She gets pecked at and picked on by Grace and Pixie.
They have a very strong pecking order.
So now I have some stock. I'm sure my dad would be pleased to know I had made it and remembered him during the process. Despite his feelings on eating chicken, he certainly valued slow food, and in his later years would take such time over preparing and cooking meals.
Our chickens bring us all enjoyment. They help us to be more connected to the garden even on wet, windy or snowy days. I could watch their antics for hours. Being around them and listening to their creative chicken-speak is refreshing. They lift my mood, bring me out of my head and thoughts.
The chicken stock is part of that experience. The rich liquid is chicken medicine. Food for body and soul.
They are a sustaining bridge between us, our hearth and the hedges around the garden.
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