Of course, this meant a certain amount of preparation was required, more than say traveled by the potatoes on their way to the gloriousness of being blended with milk and butter.
The job fell to my mother, who never winced at the first step, which involved her walking to the back of one of the smaller farm buildings, ax in one hand and chicken in another, to an awaiting block of wood—one that would probably be split later for use in the stove.
If you’ve hear the phrase, “running around like a chicken with its head cut off”? They do. It was always a brief source of amusement.
From there, the feathers were plucked, and then the pinfeathers addressed. Invariably, this meant a small dish with rubbing alcohol, which was ignited, with the naked body of the foul rotated as the pinfeathers were singed off.
Somehow, I didn’t usually hang around for the ritual removal of the innards. Nor did I inquire what happened to them. I don’t remember anyone in the family with a taste for chicken liver. I do remember examinations of gizzards and somewhat clinical discussions of the gravel inside and how it got there. A woman’s place, I presumed, was in the kitchen disemboweling small animals.
It is the same way that I remember my father’s grimmer activities—hobby is not a good word. Farmers who also had jobs outside the home did not have hobbies. They had part-time activities like fishing, that brought enjoyment, but also brought a meal into the household.
In this case, his activity was very unpolitically correct. He, like most of the men of his generation and like my grandfather, and the men of his generation, trapped. They used those noxious leghold traps, snaring mostly muskrat, along with the occasional mink, raccoon and dog. It was because of the last two that he always carried a single-shot .22-caliber pistol when he ran the trap line.
I joined him. Once. I didn’t mind his dispatching the glaring raccoon that day. I saw no point in walking around in freezing water in the morning.
From there, the departed had to be separated from those unnecessary parts of the earthly remains—which provided a tasty feast for the family dog.
To be turned into usable pelts, the hides were turned inside out, like a glove, and stretched over boards that were rectangular for most of their length, but came to a point end to accommodate the heads.
He hung those from the ceiling of a shed and when I went in to get tools, I would have to swat the flesh white skins and the boards out of the way.
These were the things people did—that men did, that women did. It defined them. It defined me just as our memories of our parents define any of us who can remember them.
It is this transforms something as bland as potato pancakes for one into a favorite food of others or makes the favorite restaurant where burgers are made just right a test that others endure for the sake of friendship.
Beyond dead foul and skinned rodents, it is our recollection of people that brings back the sounds, sounds and aromas. It is connection to the most everyday of everyday things that comes to mind and we are there again and we know who we are.
And that we are loved.
