Rule number one of raising livestock for meat: don’t let the kids name the animals. If you name them, you’ll never eat them. Of course, as a father and a homesteader who sometimes learns things the hard way, I broke that rule. This past spring, our family decided to raise a batch of Cornish Cross chickens for meat – those plump, white, eating machines bred to grow faster than a dandelion in June. We brought home a peeping box of day-old chicks with the full intention that in about eight weeks, they’d be filling our freezer. Eight weeks. We got this, I thought. What could go wrong?
Plenty, it turns out – starting with the moment my kids met the chicks. In a flurry of excitement, gentleness, and inevitable chaos, our two young children each scooped up a fuzzy yellow chick and, despite my warnings, immediately bestowed names upon them. Not practical names like “Nugget” or “Dinner” (my suggestion was swiftly vetoed), but cutesy, ridiculous names only a child’s mind could conjure. And once you’ve named Princess Fluffybottom and Sir Clucksley (yes, really), you’ve officially crossed into dangerous territory: these aren’t just future meals anymore, they’re friends.
What follows is the true (and slightly chaotic) tale of how our well-laid homestead plan turned into a comical, heart-tugging family saga. It’s a story of raising meat birds when your kids name them, told from the perspective of a dad who found himself refereeing between barnyard reality and childhood sentiment. There will be laughs, there will be a bit of barnyard mess, and there might even be a tear or two (and not just from the onion-like smell of wet chicken feathers).
So, grab a cup of coffee (or maybe chicken broth?) and come along for the ride. I promise it ends with a meal and a lesson learned – and yes, even a bit of humor amidst the feathers. Because on our homestead, nothing ever goes exactly by the book, especially not the “Don’t name your chickens” rule.
Chicks, Children, and the Naming Ceremony
It all began on a bright Saturday morning in May, when the local feed store called to tell us our chicks had arrived. We drove home with a small ventilated box in the truck cab, the sound of twenty tiny chicks peep-peep-peeping all the way. The kids were vibrating with anticipation. My daughter (age seven) was already debating names out loud (“Maybe Sparkles? Or Jellybean!”) while my five-year-old son insisted that his chick would be named Batman. Why Batman? Because, in his words, “Batman likes chicken.” (I chose not to unpack the possible implications of that one.)
By the time we got the chicks home and under the heat lamp in our makeshift brooder, the children had a whole list of names prepared. They watched the fluffy babies scurry around on wobbly legs, and the naming ceremony commenced despite my half-hearted attempt at a protest. “Remember,” I cautioned in my best Dad voice, “these chicks are meat birds, not pets. We’re going to take good care of them, but they won’t be staying with us long.”
Two pairs of wide young eyes looked up at me, nodding in solemn understanding. Yes, yes, they knew. And then the minute I turned my back, I heard my son giggling, “This one’s Captain Drumstick!” – apparently Drumstick alone wasn’t grand enough, it needed a title. My daughter chimed in, holding a particularly fuzzy chick: “I’m calling Snowflake because she’s yellow and white and perfect!” Snowflake promptly pooped in her hand, which sent the kids into hysterics and blew any shred of gravity I was trying to maintain.
I sighed and gave in. There are battles to fight on a homestead – like keeping raccoons out of the coop or convincing a stubborn goat to move – but trying to stop children from naming adorable chicks is not one I was going to win. Instead, I decided to embrace the absurdity. If they wanted to name the whole flock, so be it. In a moment of dark humor, I even suggested a few food-themed names (“How about Pot Pie or Casserole?”) hoping to gently remind everyone of the chicks’ ultimate purpose. My daughter was horrified. “Daaaad, that’s mean!” she scolded. The chicks wound up with a mix of names that ranged from the silly to the surprisingly fitting. By the end of the day, our future dinner entrées answered to:
- Princess Fluffybottom – The kids’ undisputed favorite, a tiny princess who received extra snuggles.
- Sir Clucksley – A chick that stood tall and proud; clearly knight material.
- Captain Drumstick – A large, bossy chick (the irony of Drumstick was lost on the five-year-old, thankfully).
- Snowflake – A sweet little bird with a patch of white feathers, lovingly named by my daughter.
- Batman – The chick who, according to my son, would fight crime (or maybe crumbs) in the coop.
And about a dozen more similarly christened birds, each name more endearing (or absurd) than the last. We had effectively turned our brood of meat chickens into a class roster from a kindergarten storybook. I shot my wife a look that said, This is going to be interesting. She just shrugged and smiled in that “you did warn them, and yet here we are” way.
To be fair, naming livestock isn’t universally banned. I’ve heard of seasoned homesteaders who do give their animals tongue-in-cheek names to keep things light. One family we know named their rooster “Dinner” as a constant reality check. But in our household, once a creature has a name, the kids’ emotional attachment triples on the spot. That little yellow fluffball stops being “a chicken” and becomes Snowflake, the beloved. And that’s how I found myself going to great lengths to care for a bunch of birds I was supposedly going to dispatch before the summer was out.
When Cute Turns to Chaos
The first two weeks were pure bliss for the kids and the chicks – and pure labor for me. Those Cornish Cross chicks may start small and cute, but they grow remarkably fast. We blinked and they doubled in size. No exaggeration: these birds are bred to be eating, growing machines. With unlimited feed, a Cornish Cross can reach around 5 to 6 pounds in just 6 to 8 weeks, a fact I duly explained to the kids during our “homestead science class.” (They were more interested in feeding and petting them than in growth rates, but hey, I tried.)
What this rapid growth meant in practical terms was that our brooder – essentially a big plywood box in the garage – was very quickly teeming with not-so-tiny birds. The idyllic days of fluffy cuteness were short-lived. By week two, the chicks were losing their downy fuzz and sprouting raggedy white feathers, particularly on their wings and tails. They went through that awkward “teenager” phase where they looked a bit like molting pigeons. The kids were slightly appalled that Snowflake and friends weren’t so soft anymore. My daughter even asked if the chicks were okay, or if they had a disease making them look “ugly.” I assured her it was normal – just the chickens growing up (too fast for anyone’s comfort).
By week two, the Cornish Cross chicks had started to outgrow their cuteness, trading fluff for patchy feathersqueenofthereddoublewide.com. They still had the kids giggling with their antics, but our garage was beginning to smell like a barnyard.
And oh, the antics they had! Cornish Cross are not known for grace or intellect, but they provided plenty of comic relief. They would waddle around and suddenly take off in a burst of flapping and running for no apparent reason, crashing into each other and the brooder walls. The kids dubbed these episodes “chicken zoomies.” We spent many evenings sitting by the brooder just watching and laughing at them skirmishing over a spot by the feeder or playing an accidental game of chick pile-up. Despite growing bigger every day, they still peeped endearingly and would come running (well, trundling) to any hand that appeared with treats.
However, along with rapid growth came rapid mess. What those cute homesteading Instagram posts don’t always show is that meat chickens are poop factories. I was cleaning and changing bedding constantly, and still the smell of warm chick droppings and fermenting pine shavings became a permanent perfume in our garage. The waterer had to be checked and refilled every few hours because the little rascals would kick bedding into it, or worse, poop in it almost immediately after cleaningqueenofthereddoublewide.com. Each morning I’d find the water dish full of wood shavings, feed crumbles, and you-know-what, as if the chicks threw a wild pool party in it overnight. The kids’ enthusiasm for helping with chicken chores tapered off a bit once they got a whiff of that unmistakable eau de coop. “Eww, it stinks in here!” became a common refrain.
To keep up with their appetites, we had a feeder that we refilled constantly. Cornish Cross will literally eat themselves silly if you let them – they live for food. I’d read enough to know you actually need to moderate their feeding after the first week or so, giving them rest at night, otherwise they can overeat to the point of health issues (yes, these birds have zero self-control at the buffet). We made sure to take the feed away at night and give them a dark period to sleep, partly for their health and partly so they wouldn’t keep eating and pooping 24/7. Even so, by week three we had a gang of little gluttons on our hands. They’d mob the feeder every morning like Black Friday shoppers, climbing over one another, making a racket of contented grunts and peeps. My son joked that Captain Drumstick was getting so chubby he needed a superhero cape to hold in his belly.
As they grew, the differences between these meat birds and our laying hens (we have a small flock of egg layers in the yard) became stark. The Cornish Cross chicks were shaped differently – breast-heavy and thick-legged, like miniature sumo wrestlers in chicken form. They weren’t interested in perching or exploring much; they mostly sat near the feeder, ate, napped, and repeat. When we did let them out for short supervised romps on the grass (on warm afternoons once they had some feathering), they moved in a group like a school of fish, never straying far from the feed tray we’d bring out with them. Our laying hen chicks from previous years had been curious, pecky, and flighty. These meat birds… well, they lived a simpler life, one that revolved around food. The joke on many farms is that Cornish Cross birds only have two life goals: eat as much as possible, and try not to keel over before butcher day.
That last point isn’t just dark humor – Cornish Cross are notorious for developing health problems if they grow too long or too fast. I explained to the kids that these birds are kind of like the bodybuilders of the chicken world, bred to bulk up quickly, and sometimes their hearts and legs can’t keep up with the weight gain. “Will they die?” my daughter asked, worried. I chose a gentle explanation: if we didn’t plan to butcher them young, they could get very sick. (In fact, overfeeding or delaying processing can lead to heart failure or leg injuries in Cornish Cross.) This was all the more reason, I told the kids, that our birds were only with us for a short, happy span of time – their purpose was to give us food, and it wouldn’t be kind to keep them much longer than that.
Still, giving them a good life while they were alive was our responsibility. Named or not, they were living creatures under our care. So we made sure their days were as pleasant as could be: fresh bedding, outdoor time when weather allowed, plenty of clean water and good feed, and yes, even the occasional cuddle from the kids. I must confess, despite my initial misgivings about naming them, I enjoyed seeing my children take such gentle care of their “pet” chickens. My daughter would sing to Snowflake while gently stroking her soft belly feathers (Snowflake would blissfully doze off in her arms). My son tried to teach Batman to perch on a little stick – Batman wasn’t very into acrobatics, but he’d tolerate being carried around like a sleepy cat. The sight of a burly Cornish Cross chick lounging in my son’s lap like a content football was something I won’t soon forget. Ridiculous, yes, but also strangely heartwarming.
Of course, I remained the pragmatic farmer in the eyes of my kids. When they’d chatter about how “maybe we can keep Princess Fluffybottom forever”, I’d respond with a non-committal grunt and a reminder to help me refresh the water or spread new bedding. Inside, though, I could feel a slight tug. I’m human – even I started getting a tad attached to a few of these cluckers. There was one with a scraggly feather pattern on its head that made it look like it had a comb-over; I secretly called him Grandpa and would chuckle every time I saw him waddling over. But I didn’t dare announce that name – one closet sentimentalist in this operation was enough.
As week six rolled around, our chickens were huge. The kids proudly showed visiting grandparents their flock, rattling off names as these now nearly adult birds hunkered in the grass or around their feeder. “Oh my, that one’s ready for Sunday dinner!” Grandpa chuckled, pointing at Captain Drumstick who indeed looked oven-ready in terms of size. My daughter shot him a withering look and hugged Snowflake to her chest as if to shield her. Clearly, the family was divided into two camps: the farmers and the sentimentalists. I found myself uncomfortably in the middle, wearing both hats.
The Elephant in the Room (Or Rather, the Chicken in the Freezer)
Around this time, I knew we had to start talking about Butchering Day. We had always been transparent with the kids – they knew from the outset, at least in theory, that these chickens were being raised for meat. But theory and practice are very different beasts (or birds, in this case). It’s one thing to know the chicken will end up on the dinner table; it’s another to watch Dad sharpen the axe.
I deliberately scheduled the processing for a Saturday when a fellow homesteader friend (more experienced in chicken butchery) could come by to help. The plan was to do the deed early in the morning, as efficiently and humanely as possible, and hopefully while the kids were still half-asleep or busy with cartoons inside. Yes, I was kind of sneaking around – not to hide it entirely, but to make it less of a spectacle. My wife and I debated whether the kids should be present at all. She leaned towards keeping them inside until the messy part was over; I wasn’t sure. I grew up more rural than she did, and I remember being about my son’s age when I first watched my grandfather butcher a chicken. It was jarring, but it taught me respect for the animal and the food it provided. On the other hand, I hadn’t given those chickens cute names and dressed them in doll hats (yes, I caught my kids putting a tiny doll hat on Sir Clucksley one afternoon – poor tolerant chicken!).
In the days leading up, there was a tension on the homestead that even the chickens probably sensed. I’d walk into the coop area and feel a pang of guilt seeing those bright little eyes and the trusting way Snowflake would toddle over, expecting a treat. I’d scratch her neck and think, Am I a terrible person for this? The kids were blissfully ignorant of my inner turmoil; they continued to feed and play with their chickens, though I noticed my daughter especially would make little comments like, “I wish they could just live here forever,” or “Maybe they can be egg chickens?”
I tried to prepare them gently. One evening at bedtime, I brought the subject up again. “You guys remember why we raised these chickens, right?” I ventured. There was a long silence. Then my daughter’s small voice: “To eat them…” – barely above a whisper. My son added, in a quavering but matter-of-fact tone, “Because that’s what meat chickens are for.”
I affirmed that was true. We talked a bit about how all chicken nuggets or drumsticks or turkey sandwiches come from animals that were once alive – animals that often didn’t have as good a life as our chickens did. I told them our chickens had sunshine, grass, good food, and people who cared about them, which is a lot better than being a grocery store chicken. My daughter, ever the empathetic soul, asked, “Will it hurt them?” I responded honestly: “We will do everything we can to make it quick and humane. They won’t be scared for long, and they won’t feel pain the way we’ll do it.” She nodded, but I could tell she was trying not to think about it too much.
Then she asked if she could keep Snowflake’s feathers after, to remember her by. Oh boy, here came the lump in my throat. “We’ll see what we can do,” I croaked, giving her a hug. In her own way, she was finding a path to acceptance: turning her pet into a sort of legacy craft project. I tucked the kids in that night feeling like I was carrying the weight of two opposing worlds – the nurturer and the executioner – a paradox every homesteader who raises meat animals eventually faces.
I questioned the logic of this whole enterprise more than once. There I was, a grown man with a day job, spending my weekends shoveling chicken manure, shelling out money for feed, and now bracing to break my kids’ hearts – all for a few dinners’ worth of meat. Wouldn’t it be easier (and certainly cleaner) to just buy chicken breasts at the supermarket like normal people? Why was I, effectively, complicating our lives? We could raise a garden for veggies and buy ethically sourced meat elsewhere, spare the kids and ourselves this drama.
But then I’d remember why we started: we want to be connected to our food. We value knowing how our animals lived and what they ate. We want our children to truly understand that meat doesn’t originally come in plastic wrap, and that taking a life for food is a serious thing – something to be respected, not just a transaction at a drive-thru. Those ideals sound grand until you’re actually at the doorstep of the act. Ideals don’t make it less icky or sad. Maybe I am crazy, I thought. Maybe this really isn’t for everyone. There was even a moment I considered calling the whole thing off, calling up a local farmer who processes poultry and seeing if they’d take our chickens and do the dirty work for me. But I knew that was just me flinching from an uncomfortable duty. If I wasn’t willing to face it, I felt I had no business eating meat at all.
And so, with a heavy mix of resolve and dread, I set the date and quietly began gathering tools for the day: a couple of sharp knives, an old tree stump and hatchet (our improvised “killing cone” setup), a large pot for scalding water, and a pile of feed sacks to use as a makeshift clean surface. It was happening, like it or not.
Butchering Day: A Barnyard Drama
The dawn of Butchering Day arrived cool and cloudy. Fitting, I thought, that the weather matched the mood. I woke up before the sun, partly to get set up and partly because I hadn’t exactly slept soundly the night before. My stomach was doing gymnastics.
I stepped outside to the coop area where our plump chickens were still snoozing in their enclosure. They were so large now that a few could barely hop up the little ramp to the coop – most just slept in a pile inside or around the feeder. As I approached, a couple opened one eye, recognizing the Food Guy (me). Sorry, buddies, no breakfast today. We had withheld feed since the previous evening so their crops would be empty for butchering – a standard practice to make things cleanerqueenofthereddoublewide.com. I felt like a jerk, nonetheless, as they looked at me expectantly and I gave them nothing but a gentle pat.
By 7:00 AM, my friend Joe had arrived to help. We set up a processing station under a big oak tree by the barn. Large pot of water heating on a propane burner (for dunking the carcasses to loosen feathers), knives laid out, plastic tables for eviscerating and bagging. We improvised a bit – no proper metal killing cones, so we decided we’d do it the old-fashioned way: one of us would firmly hold the chicken on the stump, the other would deliver a swift chop to the neck with the hatchet. It’s not elegant, but it’s effective. (Mental note: build or buy killing cones before attempting this again – using a stump and axe is a classic but messy approachqueenofthereddoublewide.com.)
I was nervous about that first cull. Joe, seeing my jitters, offered to do the honors on the first bird while I held it. We fetched our first candidate: Captain Drumstick, who was one of the largest. In fact, out of curiosity we had weighed a few birds the day before; most were around 7 pounds live weightqueenofthereddoublewide.com, a testament to just how enormous they’d gotten. Captain Drumstick might have been even heftier – he felt like a feathery bowling ball in my arms.
Now, of course, nothing involving kids and animals goes without a hitch on our homestead. Just as we were carrying the big white rooster (yes, he had grown a notable comb, much to my son’s pride) towards the tree, who should appear but our children, still in pajamas, running across the yard. My wife trailed behind, looking apologetic. So much for the distraction with cartoons. The kids had bolted out of bed the second they heard chicken commotion outside.
My daughter’s eyes widened as she took in the scene: Dad and Mr. Joe with grim expressions, holding a chicken and an axe by a tree. “Wait! Is that Captain Drumstick? What are you doing?!” she cried, already knowing the answer. My son, who often acts braver than he feels, stood still, his lip trembling despite clenching his little fists.
I gently handed Captain Drumstick back into the makeshift pen and walked over to intercept the kids. Both flung themselves at me, one crying, one angrily demanding I explain myself (even though we’d been over it… logic doesn’t apply when emotions run high). I crouched down, hugging them. “Listen, listen,” I said softly. “Remember what we talked about. Today is the day. I know it’s hard, and it’s okay to be sad or mad. I know. But this is what we planned from the beginning.”
Through tears, my daughter sobbed, “But he’s my friend!” And that right there just about shattered me. Behind me, poor Joe stood respectfully quiet, holding his hat in his hands, not sure how to proceed. My wife came and wrapped our daughter in a hug, giving me a look that said, maybe they shouldn’t be out here.
We decided to give the kids a choice: they could go back inside with Mom, or they could stay and watch from a distance if they wanted to see how it’s done. I was honestly surprised when my son wiped his nose on his sleeve and said, “I want to stay. I want to help.” He looked at his sister. “We raised them. We have to do it, right Dad?” His voice wavered, but there was resolve there. I nodded, feeling a strange mix of pride and sorrow. My daughter, on the other hand, shook her head vehemently. “I can’t watch,” she whispered. So she went inside with Mom, thankfully, where they decided they’d bake cookies as a distraction (and, I suspect, to console themselves with chocolate chips – A+ coping strategy).
So it ended up being me, my buddy, and one small boy with big determination out under the oak tree, about to turn beloved chickens into food. If that isn’t a snapshot of homestead life, I don’t know what is.
We resumed our task, this time with my son standing a few paces back, observing intensely, tears dried but cheeks pale. I took a deep breath, picked up Captain Drumstick again, and murmured a quick thanks to him (in my head; I wasn’t quite together enough to say it out loud). Then, in one swift motion just as we’d planned, Joe brought the hatchet down. It was as quick and clean as I could have hoped for, though I’ll spare the details. Let’s just say the old saying “running around like a headless chicken” exists for a reason. Even though I’d warned my son that some nerves might make the chicken move afterward, it still startled him (and me, if I’m honest) to see a bit of flapping after the deed. He flinched but held his ground.
The hardest part was behind us – at least physically. Emotionally, it was awkward. We had just dispatched a creature that had been playing with the kids a day before. But now that it was done, a strange calm set in. My son quietly helped us lay Captain Drumstick’s body on the table. I could see he was processing it in his own way: curious and sad and fascinated all at once. I asked if he was okay, and he solemnly nodded, then surprised me by asking, “Can I help pluck the feathers?”
Thus began a messy, almost ritualistic routine. We dunked the chicken in the big pot of hot water heated to about 150°F for a minute to loosen the feathers (the smell of wet chicken and scalding water hit my nose – not pleasant, but familiar). My son held his nose but watched, and when we lifted the bird out, steam rising and feathers sloughing off, he even managed a little “Whoa… cool.” Plucking went smoothly (dunking really does the trick for easy feather removal). We soon had what looked like a pale supermarket chicken in front of us, albeit with feet still attached.
One by one, we worked through the flock. Catch a chicken (we tried to do it gently and keep them as calm as possible), quick dispatch on the stump, scald, pluck, rinse, and then onto eviscerating and cleaning. My friend and I traded off duties, and he guided me through some of the finer points of gutting (it’s not my first time processing, but I’m no expert and frankly a bit clumsy). We had a few oops moments – nicked a gallbladder on one (cue a rush to rinse off any green bile so it wouldn’t taint the meat), and dropped one slippery chicken on the ground (cue an expletive from me and a quick re-wash while my son giggled at Dad breaking his own “no swearing on the farm” rule). For the most part, though, things went smoothly, even faster than I expected. The overcast sky kept things cool and mercifully the farm flies hadn’t arrived yet for the day.
What was surprising (to me, at least) was how my attitude – and my son’s – shifted once we were in the groove. The first chicken was emotionally tough, yes. The second one was still somber. But by the third or fourth, a sense of purpose took over. We began viewing it as a job that needed doing, and doing right. The birds we had cared for were now, in a matter of minutes, transforming into plucked poultry ready for the freezer. It was as if my brain compartmentalized: these were no longer the characters we had been feeding and naming; they were meat, because we made it so swiftly. I don’t mean to sound callous – the weight of it was still there – but it became manageable. Even my son’s demeanor changed from wary to almost business-like; he handed us tools, gathered discarded feathers into a pile, and focused on the practical tasks. I caught him quietly counting each finished bird. “Dad, that’s ten,” he said as we bagged another. “Three more to go.” He was keeping track. He wanted to make sure we didn’t accidentally do Snowflake.
Ah, yes. Snowflake. We had agreed the night before – somewhat against my better judgment – that we would spare Snowflake until the very end, and only if our daughter gave the go-ahead. Snowflake, the anointed favorite, had earned a temporary stay of execution. Part of me groaned at this (it isn’t great to keep one lone meat bird alive without her flock, and I knew it was likely just delaying the inevitable heartbreak), but another part of me was relieved that my daughter had that lifeline to cling to for the day. So Snowflake clucked away in a pet carrier in the garage during the entire butchering process, blissfully unaware. We’d deal with that later.
By late morning, we had processed 12 chickens. The last flapping, the last scald and pluck, the last gutting – it was done. We lost count of how many feathers we hosed off the driveway (it looked like a pillow fight had taken place). We now had a cooler filled with ice and neatly bagged chickens, each a hefty 5-6 pounds of future dinners. My arms were sore, my shirt was speckled with blood and wet feathers, and I probably smelled like some combination of wet dog (thanks to the wet feather odor) and raw chicken. But we did it. I glanced down at my son; he, too, had some feather fluff in his hair and a smudge of something on his cheek. He looked back at me with an expression that was hard to read – a bit proud, a bit disturbed, a bit relieved.
I checked in on him: “You okay, buddy?” He thought for a moment and said, “Yeah. That was… a lot. But I’m okay.” Then, in classic 5-year-old fashion, he added, “Can I have a cookie now?” I laughed – a weary, genuine laugh – and gave him a high-five. “Heck yes, you earned a cookie. You earned all the cookies.”
We cleaned up our work area, disposed of the offal (buried it out back, which incidentally made our dog very interested in that section of the yard for a while), and thanked Joe profusely for his help. By this time, my daughter had emerged from the house, having cautiously peeked from the window enough to know the active part was over. She approached and looked at the cooler full of wrapped meat with a mixture of fascination and sadness. I showed her that each package was labeled and told her, softly, that one of them was Captain Drumstick, one was Sir Clucksley, and so on. She didn’t cry, which I took as a sign she’d somewhat braced herself. Instead, she asked, “Is Snowflake okay?”
Snowflake, our sole survivor, was in a bit of a confused state. Chickens are flock animals and suddenly finding herself alone, she was pacing in the carrier and clucking loudly. My daughter took over caring for Snowflake like it was her newborn baby. We gave Snowflake some food and water (the poor bird must have thought she hit the lottery – breakfast in the afternoon and a pass on the grim reaper). I explained to my daughter gently that Snowflake might not do well by herself for long. Chickens get lonely and stressed alone, and Cornish Cross aren’t meant to live much beyond this age. She nodded and said she understood, but asked if we could keep Snowflake “just a little longer.” In a moment of soft-hearted weakness (and exhaustion), I agreed to a short reprieve. We decided Snowflake would stay with us for a few more days, maybe a week, under special care, and we’d see how she fared.
Looking back, I’m not sure if that was the right call. It appeased my daughter in the moment, yes. But it also prolonged the farewell. Snowflake ended up living out only another two weeks; by then she could barely walk due to her size and her legs struggling under the weight. We eventually had to put her down too, quietly and without fanfare, while the kids were at a friend’s house. It was, in a way, a kinder end for the bird, but that’s an epilogue I’ll get to later.
For now, the main drama had ended. We all stood around the yard, somewhat dazed that it was over. My wife had set out lunch – ironically, BLT sandwiches (store-bought bacon, not any of our chickens, thankfully). We ate in relative quiet, each processing the morning’s events. The kids, resilient as they are, were soon chattering about other topics (like how many cookies they’d each had, and whether Dad’s beard looked like a “chicken feather butt” with all the white fluff stuck in it). The tension slowly melted away, replaced by a tired peace.
A Table of Mixed Emotions
That evening, we decided to cook one of the chickens for dinner. This was a deliberate choice – I felt it important to close the circle, to honor the process by enjoying the food we worked so hard for. Plus, if we were ever going to get the kids to accept what happened, having a delicious roast chicken with all the fixings might help underline the purpose of it all.
We roasted Sir Clucksley (the name was still on a little label in the freezer bag) with herbs and butter. As the kitchen filled with the aroma of home-grown chicken and rosemary, I noticed the kids hovering, both drawn by the smell yet uneasy, knowing exactly which bird it was. At the table, my daughter poked at her mashed potatoes quietly, eyeing the platter of carved chicken meat. My son, who had been the braver during the butchering, also hesitated now that it was on his plate. This was unexpected. I guess in the flurry of the day, they hadn’t fully confronted the eating part yet. Here it was.
I won’t lie: the first few bites were a little awkward. I made a point of saying grace (we always do, but this time it was more pointed), thanking the Lord and the chicken for the meal. We encouraged the kids to try at least a bite. My wife and I took some first, exaggerating our yum sounds a bit. And truly, when I bit into that roast, it was phenomenal – tender, flavorful, the skin perfectly crispy. Home-raised chicken has an amazing taste, rich and satisfying, probably because you know what went into it (both feed-wise and effort-wise).
Finally, my son took a bite. His eyes lit up just a little and he gave a tiny nod, though he was trying to stay somber. “It’s good,” he admitted. My daughter was the holdout. She nibbled one small piece, then set it down and declared, “I’m not really hungry for chicken tonight.” We didn’t force it. We let her have extra bread and butter and some carrots from the garden. That was okay.
What did surprise us, though, was when halfway through the meal, she quietly asked, “Can we save some for Snowflake?” My wife and I exchanged glances, unsure how to respond. We gently explained that Snowflake was a chicken and chickens don’t eat cooked chicken (well, actually they might, chickens can be shockingly omnivorous, but we certainly weren’t about to feed chicken to chicken in this scenario!). My daughter looked a little embarrassed as she realized the oddity of the suggestion. “I just… want her to know we still care,” she mumbled. Cue my heart melting again. We promised to give Snowflake some scraps of cornbread instead as a treat. That appeased her.
By the end of dinner, conversation had returned to normal kid chatter. The initial discomfort had passed, and bellies were full. The kids even giggled when my wife joked that Sir Clucksley “was clucking good.” Too soon? I gave her a playful nudge under the table, but even my daughter cracked a tiny smile. Turns out gallows humor runs in the family.
That night, after the kids were in bed (utterly passed out from the emotional rollercoaster and the sugar crash from all those coping-cookies), my wife and I sat on the porch with mugs of tea, listening to the summer crickets. We talked about the day – what went right, what we’d do differently, and how proud we were of the kids. “They handled it better than I expected,” she said. I agreed. There had been tears, sure, but no tantrums or lasting anger. Kids are resilient, especially when you trust them with the truth (in measured doses appropriate for their age).
I confessed to her my earlier doubts – how I had questioned why we do this at all. She understood; she’d had moments of thinking the same. But we also acknowledged that despite the difficulties, there was something profoundly real about the experience. It’s not easy to take a life, nor should it be. But in doing so together (even if not everyone could stomach the full process), we felt more connected to each other and to our food. It’s like the family pulled together to get through something hard, and we did. There’s value in that.
We peered out toward the coop, where Snowflake was now the sole occupant. She was silent (sleeping, I hoped). “What do we do about her?” my wife asked softly. We knew we were kicking the can down the road. I had a feeling Snowflake’s time was near, simply because of her health declining. We decided to play it by ear over the next few days, and when the time came, we’d handle it as gently as possible – likely without involving the kids directly again. My wife joked, “Maybe Snowflake will just die of old age – like, in two weeks, considering Cornish Cross old age is about three months.” I chuckled at the dark joke. We both knew we’d be having a very small second butchering day soon, but we didn’t say it outright.
For now, we allowed ourselves a moment of contentment. The freezer was full of chickens we raised ourselves. We knew exactly what went into them (a lot of feed, sweat, and a few tears, as it turned out). The meal in our bellies had a story, one we’d remember for a long time. As a father, I felt a cautious pride. The day hadn’t been perfect – far from it – but I felt like we managed to strike a balance between honesty and compassion for our kids. They learned something real about life and death, about effort and reward, and I dare say they gained a new appreciation for chicken nuggets.
Lessons Learned (With a Side of Laughter)
A few days later, I found my daughter drawing in her journal. She had made a little comic strip about the chickens. In the frames, stick-figure Dad is chasing a giant chicken with an axe (oh dear, is that how she saw me?!), then there’s a frame of a cooked drumstick on a plate with everyone smiling around the table. She had titled it “The Circle of Life (Homestead Edition)”. It was funny, and a bit poignant. I asked her how she felt now that some time had passed. “I was really sad, Dad,” she said matter-of-factly. “But I’m okay. I’m happy they were our chickens. And... I’m happy I still have Snowflake… for now.” She added that last part quietly.
Snowflake, by the way, lived another 10 days and then, as expected, started having trouble standing and breathing. We ended up euthanizing her as kindly as we could. We told the kids she likely had a heart issue (which was true, these birds just aren’t built for longevity). There were a few tears of goodbye, but by then the kids had somewhat made peace. We buried Snowflake under a young oak tree at the edge of our property, with a little stone my daughter painted as a marker. Yes, the chicken got a grave. That might seem ridiculous to some, but it felt right for our family. Princess Fluffybottom, Sir Clucksley, Captain Drumstick and the rest were memorialized in a more practical way: via several hearty meals that we thoroughly enjoyed, often with a toast of thanks to them (the kids insisted on thanking the chickens in heaven at the start of each “chicken dinner” meal for a while).
Looking back on this whole escapade, I can smile at the chaos of it all. It was funny, real, and slightly chaotic – exactly as rural life tends to be. I mean, who else can say their weekend family drama involved characters like Princess Fluffybottom and Captain Drumstick? We learned that on a homestead, humor is not just a bonus, it’s a survival skill. You have to be able to laugh at absurd moments – like when you’re trying to have a serious conversation about life and death with a five-year-old in Superman pajamas, or when you’re wrestling a giant chicken named Batman into a pot of hot water. Those moments are the glue that bonds a family through the crazy journey of self-sufficiency.
Would I do it again, this whole raising meat birds with the kids intimately involved? Honestly… yes. But I’d do a few things differently. First (and this will not shock you): I might enforce a “no cute names” rule a bit more strictly, or at least guide the naming toward more, uh, pragmatic choices. If you must name a meat chicken, naming it “Dinner” or “Stewpot” does help keep the right perspective. We learned that the hard way. Second, I’d prepare the kids even more, maybe involve them in butchering in smaller ways earlier (like let them observe a neighbor’s butchering day) so it’s not such a huge leap. And third, I’d prepare myself better for the emotional fallout – both theirs and mine. Because at the end of the day, I’m not made of stone either. I may have joked and griped about those chickens, but I cared about them too, in my own farmer-ish way. It’s a strange duality: you give them the best life you can, and then you take it. It’s heavy, but it’s real.
In the final tally, we ended up with a freezer full of homegrown chicken, two kids who gained a new level of understanding (and a painted rock memorial to prove it), and a trove of family stories we’ll be retelling for years. Like the time Batman the chicken pooped on my son’s shoe during an epic chase, or the image of my daughter sternly lecturing me that “you can’t feed chicken to a chicken, Dad!” at the dinner table. These are the gems of homestead life – the chaos, the comedy, the moments of tenderness and teachable moments all scrambled together like the world’s messiest omelet.
As I finish writing this, I glance over at the coat rack by our back door. Hanging there is a small feather – white and downy – tied to a string. It’s one of Snowflake’s feathers. My daughter hung it there so “Snowflake can greet us every day.” Rather than feeling morbid, it actually makes me smile. It’s a reminder that our food has a face and a story, and that we cared for it from start to finish. It reminds me of the resilience of kids, and how even when they name the animals we’re going to eat, it’s not the end of the world – it just makes the journey a bit more complicated and a lot more memorable.
In conclusion, raising meat birds when your kids name them is… well, it’s a crazy idea. It’s inviting a tumble of guilt, laughter, learning, and love into your life. It means you’ll have to navigate questions you never thought you’d hear (“Do chickens go to heaven, Dad?”). It means your butchering day might involve a side of homemade cookies and a few sniffles. But it also means your family will share an experience that truly connects you to each other and to the food on your plates. In a world where most people are disconnected from their food sources, that’s a pretty profound thing for a couple of little homesteaders-in-training to grasp.
So would I change our decision to let the kids name the meat birds? Nah. In its own backwards way, it taught us exactly what it was supposed to: that love and loss often live under the same roof on a farm, and that our food is not just nourishment but a narrative.
As I tucked the kids in on Butchering Day night, my son sleepily asked, “Dad, are you sad about the chickens?” I paused. “A little,” I admitted. “But I’m also proud. We did a hard thing today. We respected those chickens, and now they’re going to feed us.” He nodded and murmured, “Yeah. I think they were good chickens.” From the other room, my daughter chimed in drowsily (apparently still awake), “The best chickens.” I had to smile. “The best,” I agreed.
And thus ends the saga of Princess Fluffybottom, Sir Clucksley, Captain Drumstick, Snowflake, Batman, and the rest of our dearly departed dinner flock. It was wild, it was wacky, it was bittersweet. But it was real. The next time we raise meat birds, we might be a little more prepared (and I might stock extra tissue for butchering day). But you can bet it will still be an adventure, named chickens or not – because that’s just how we roll here at our little homestead.
In the end, as I reflect on that chapter, one thought makes me chuckle: We always said we wanted our kids to know where their food comes from… We just never realized our food would have names and play tag with them in the backyard first! Life’s funny that way. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Happy homesteading, and if you ever find yourself in our shoes with a coop full of “pet” chickens that are supposed to be dinner – take a breath, hug your kids (and maybe a chicken), and remember to keep a sense of humor. You’re definitely going to need it.
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