roosters

Meatless Monday Catch-Up

September 20, 2010

Meatless Mondays 28 – 38.

I know you all just think I fell off the Meatless Monday wagon. That I am too ashamed to even admit it.

But you are wrong.

We’re still doing Meatless Monday. I just haven’t been writing about it. There are several reasons why:

They have been lame.
They have been lame.
And, they have been lame.

Remember when I said I wanted to do no repeaters?

Fail.

Remember when I said having plain noodles or rice was a cop-out and I wouldn’t do it?

I’m a hypocrite.

Remember when I said we’d — all of us — be eating Meatless Monday together, even if it wasn’t on a Monday?

I was on drugs.

But I’m a stubborn one. I’m not giving up. Just yesterday, I was busy stewing up a Meatless Monday enchilada recipe for dinner to be made with my freshly made green tomato sauce.

This isn’t tomato sauce made with unripe, green tomatoes.

Rather, it is made with the variety of tomato (Green Zebra and Green Grape in this instance) that is green when it is ripe:

A delicious, delicious variety. Probably one of my favorites.

And one that should never, ever be made into tomato sauce.

And yet I did, because what the hell else am I going to do with two buckets full of them? They’ll rot before we can eat them with fresh mozzarella. Not to mention that if I ate that much mozzarella, I would start to look like a log of the stuff myself.

What to make with green tomato sauce, what to make with green tomato sauce…

Green enchiladas! Yes! (I mean, that would look OK, right? Sort of like salsa verde??)

What to add, what to add…

Those extra frozen red beans from the batch I made in June!

And it was all downhill from there. The red beans had big chunks of chorizo that I had forgotten about, wrecking my Meatless Monday plans (yeah, I know it was Sunday, just go with me here). The addition made the sauce a sick orangish color that looked like vomit. So I figured, what the heck, I’ll add some of these chicken legs… The very legs that had been holding up one of my roosters up about three hours before.

And I sat there stirring that ungodly brew, sort of crying about those stupid roosters and thinking of becoming a full-time vegetarian.

Seriously. There is nothing like butchering your own meat to push you over the edge.

Wait. That isn’t accurate. I’m sounding way too cool. You are probably thinking, “Wow. She killed them herself?” No, no, no. I’m a ninny. I always think I can do it, but I actually can’t. It’s happened several times out here. Me thinking I can kill any number of varmints. But I never can.

I do hunt upland birds, but I think I can do that because there is always the chance I will miss them. A good chance. It’s certainly never a sure thing.

Going into the coop, where I have fussed and carried on to keep the chickens safe and not afraid of me. To go in grab them and kill them? Nope. Sorry. No can do.

That’s what dads are for.

My dad.

It was the nicest thing he’s ever done for me. I know it was hard for him because he babies my chickens even more than me. He offered to help since he had the time. I knew he didn’t really want to do it and yet I let him do the whole dang thing. Dave was finally obligated to help him once he realized it was really happening. He didn’t want to look like a ninny, either. But the truth is, no one really wanted to do the deed, Dave included.

And I hid in the kitchen wringing my hands.

What a weenie.

I did do a brave thing later on. I actually cooked a couple of the legs.

And it made me sad. I’m not going vegetarian, but it does seriously make you consider every bite.

Every dang bite of every morsel of chicken. You gettin’ my drift? Chewing chicken has never been so hard…

So, for Meatless Monday tonight I had this:

It might have been the best one ever: Blue cheese on triscuts with red wine. Just me and my blue cheese with a book and some wine.

Meatless Monday suddenly took a turn for the better.

Murder at the Menkes: A Henhouse Whodunit.

September 8, 2010

So you all know about my rooster woes, right? The fact that I have five chickens crowded into a small fenced area, due to the existence of a single, renegade rooster living on the outside?

I’ve had about my fill of roosters fighting to the death, so these guys will remain separated until I can solve the problem. The solution, naturally, is that I plan to kill the crazy rooster and have him stuffed. Of course. Who wouldn’t, right?

Apparently no one would.

But that’s my plan and I’m sticking to it.

The only problem right now is that we just can’t come to a clear agreement on how to actually go about the killing of him. I suspect that is our lame excuse for avoiding it all together. I mean, really. Who wants to kill anything in cold blood?

Not me.

And also, apparently, not Dave.

Hunting is far more sporting. It’s another thing entirely to walk out there with sole the intention of catching him and killing him. Just like that. No sporting chance.

I know, because I have tried. And, I’ve always ended up watering the sunflowers instead.

Go figure. I must like the guy on some level.

Did I tell you he flew off the roof and tried to get me in the face the other day?

Well he did. And I’m still somewhat amused by him.

Oh, we’ve talked and talked the killing to death (get it? to death?) and we’re no where nearer to an answer than we were a month ago. It has to be as quick as possible. No suffering:

death by drowning
death by carbon monoxide
death by wringing of neck
death by .22
death by slitting of throat
death by Lola

OK, Lola is out. That would definitely involve terror and therefore suffering.

Anyway. We were out of town for the last several days (hence no updates in the last week) and I hadn’t checked on the chickens since I got back. I had Charlie run out there last night to ascertain that all was well. Why I would trust either of my kids to such a task, I have no idea. Remember, these are the same kids that didn’t notice a dead hen, despite their assurance to me that they had counted them, for over a week. When I went out there, all I found were some ribs and a wing.

However, since I could hear both the loud and shrill crazy crow of The Chieftain, and the gargled, strangling sound of the immature Chicken Little rooster, I figured Charlie was right.

That was last night.

This morning, as I was laying in bed, I heard a disturbing sound. It was a distinct bird like call, chicken in nature, that was neither the young rooster or the crazy rooster’s crow.

It chilled me to the very bone.

A third rooster? Surely not!

After dropping the kids off, I went out back to check things out. What I found was very disturbing indeed:

Murder in the Hen House.

Now, at first glance, this was maybe not such a bad thing, since it brought me down to one rooster, albeit a very mean and flight-aided one. I wondered, “Did these four hens rise up against the rooster and kill him? Was that what I heard this morning? His death throes?” I mean, you should see these hens. They are HUGE! It is certainly possible that one of them could have over-powered their oppressor.

Could it have been Miss Scarlet, in the Chicken Run, with the Watermelon Rind?

Or maybe Mrs. Peacock, in the Coop, with the Wooden Perch.

Who could it be.

Who could it be…

And then, I started really looking at these hens. And I’m like “that is one big, effin’ hen.”

Wait a minute… Could that one be a rooster? Nooooo. Please no!

Yes!

No!

YES!

I know the answer, because two hours later, with one of two known roosters dead, I heard a new crow. I think it’s this one:

Oh my GOSH! Is that BLOOD on his neck?

I think it IS! This is just like CSI! If I could just zoom in and enhance it a bit, using thermal imagery technology…

I don’t think that’s barbecue sauce. But it’s odd, because I did not see any blood on Chicken Little. So I went back to check him over again. I still didn’t see any blood, but I did see this

Could it be a clue? A post-mortem fingerprint? Hidden away under his wing awaiting my detection?

It will have to be sent out for DNA analysis, of course. Until then, the two striped suspects are under surveillance. At this point in the investigation, the evidence is inconclusive, but off the record, I think we have our killer. One of these days he’ll make a mistake and I’ll be there with the cuffs.

And now, this afternoon, after studying them a bit more, I’m actually thinking that BOTH the barred rocks (the striped ones) might be fricken’ roosters! They are both ridiculously large. And upon further inspection, I notice both of them have ever-so-slight knobs where spurs should be.

Seriously. This is truly insane. Hatcheries are between 90 and 95 percent accurate at sexing chicks. And I get three roosters out five “sexed pullets” in random assorted batch?

After that epiphany, I opened the door between the two coops and figured, “go ahead, fight to the death. I care not.”

That was six hours ago and they are still voluntarily segregated. I think it is worth noting that I still haven’t gotten a single egg from these “hens.” So it would be premature to say I have — not counting the recently departed white rooster — three roosters and two hens –because who’s to say they aren’t ALL roosters? Time will tell.

Is this God’s way of telling me I should give up on raising chickens? In the last 2 years, I have had no less than NINE roosters, when my intention was to have ZERO.

How’m I doing so far?

Rooster Round-Up

August 4, 2010

No, this post is not about Dave.

But I bet he wishes it was.

I have lost track of the many, many roosters that God has bestowed on me for safe keeping. That last sentence seriously escaped my typing fingers without a blush. It was only after it was on the screen in front of me, that I realize how ridiculous it sounds.

NO CHICKEN HAS EVER BEEN SAFE WITH ME. (Just ask Lola)

So let’s try that again:

I have lost track of the many, many roosters that God has burdened me with.

There. Much better.

But there should be a celestial limit placed on the number of mean roosters one person is dealt. Because I have had my share.

None rival The Chieftain, though. He scares the poop out of me.

He has now taken to attacking us. It’s all very traumatic. I’m going to try to get some actions shots tomorrow. Time is of the essence. Something tells me he’s not long for this world…

So, I had to, of course, separate this guy from the chicks when I brought them home in April. They are still separated. I had actually opened the door between their two pens late last week. I can’t tell you when I’ve laughed so hard, watching this ridiculous rooster, coo and carry on for the hens in the adjoining pen. Nothing — NOTHING — he could do would convince them to come over to the dark side.

So I shut the door a couple hours later.

About 5pm that very night I heard an awful noise: The garbled crowing of a young rooster.

I confess that right up until I heard the sound with my own ears, I had continued to talk myself into the idea that this white chicken could possibly be a hen:

I know. It was dumb.

But get this: I swear it is true. I got these at a local store that sold individual “heavy layer pullets” (that’s rural-ese for “hens only”). I went late in the season (since I wasn’t expecting Lola to kill my last two chickens in early April). I planned to get 3 or 4, but there were only five left, so I took them all. My only concern was the leggy blond one. “Do you think that might be a rooster,” I asked? “No, no, no,” said the shop keeper. “These’re all pullets,” he exclaimed!

“I been ’round the block a few times pardner,” said I, “And I know them chicken hatcheries can make mistakes!”

“Worry not,” he reiterated, “This is a hen!” Hen, my ass…

It is little consolation that I was right. Oh, I do love being right. But not this time.

So that explains the Mexican standoff the other day with the door open. And now I’ve got to figure out what to do. The Chieftain is a serious problem, and not just because he is a mean, MFing rooster that has emblazoned my legs with scars, but because he FLIES. He files EVERYWHERE.

I took my life into my hands to bring you these up close and personal pictures. Yes, I could have put the telephoto lens on, but that would have required a trip back to the house.

I have given up going out at night to put him into the coop and locking him in safe for several reasons:

Because I forget
Because I don’t care
Because he is scary

At night chickens go into a chicken-trance and become very docile. Not him. You can pick him up, no problem, but he totally freaks out once you have him. So he roosts on the top of the fence. He’s been doing it since Memorial Day and is still alive to crow about it. Who am I to mess with his success?

But, if I do tempt fate and put the two roosters together in the big pen where The Chief now resides solo, he will teach this new flock how to fly out. And they will fly out and into the mouth of the ravenous Lola GSP.

And, then the cycle will repeat itself again: Desperate for eggs, I will unwittingly buy young roosters on Craig’s List, masquerading as hens by unscrupulous sellers, get rid of them and buy young pullets in the spring, only to be killed by Lola in late summer.

Make me stop writing now. This is depressing. I miss Sarge. He was the best rooster ever:

Immortalized and stuffed and now standing guard in my kitchen.