One of our extra freezer doors got left open for something like 36 hours. Heidi the hen (RIP) was still frozen (RIF), but the vegies definitely defrosted. The boo-boo turned into an opportunity to wipe down the freezer and take out Heidi before getting everything else refrozen.
Thus, she (it?) was in the garage defrosting for the past 12 hours. Then Ron gutted and plucked her (it?) this morning. Apparently Heidi is now in a stew pot.
Conveniently I’m at work today so I didn’t (have to) see the reality of eating meat: gutting, plucking, and such, although I did (have to) experience her death and dying. Presumably the coyotes or other critters will enjoy her innards now in the woods.
Ron reports that Heidi is a beautiful stew hen–meaty and big–just as we expected given that she was the biggest bird of the flock (at least before Scruffy). I’m sure she’ll make a delicious stew or soup.
On some level, there is something bizarre about insisting on calling her by name and referencing Heidi as a her. But, in life as in death, she wasn’t just a nameless chicken, one of hundreds of thousands jammed in an industrial chicken plant and conveniently sanitized into styrofoam and plastic packaging. Thus, I feel like I owe it to her–big Heidi who whooped like a guinea pig–to remember her being-ness, however short her life was–even as we eat her for dinner.