I've tried to write about my present horror twice already this evening and I simply can't. I can't relive the images in my mind, I can't overcome the quease in my tummy, and I can't find the words to adequately describe how I'm feeling. All I can tell you is:
- This sorry state of affairs involves the turkeys that used to roam our farm, and 12 roosters.
- No one should ever have to wash a turkey in a bathtub because the creature is too big to fit in a sink.
- A turkey should not weigh 37.8 pounds.
- A portion of a turkey neck should not weigh more than one pound.
- A pressure-cooked rooster should not forever ruin the savory aroma of rosemary for a person.
- One's 11-yr-old daughter should not delight in a headless rooster flopping around on the ground and should absolutely not command the poor dead rooster to "jump higher!"
- The poor dead rooster should not comply to such a tactless command. It shouldn't...it really, really shouldn't. Dear Heavenly Father, could you please tell me why, oh why, dead roosters are capable of leaping on command?
- Finally, one should not find out that one is in fact NOT an unflappable, sturdy farm woman, but is instead an easily traumatized, urpy wuss as a result of one, 3-hr experience on a bright, shiny, sunny winter's day.
Because I can't bring myself to write (or eat) after today's shenanigans, I'm just going to leave you with the below image of our little farm the morning after the first snowfall of the season this year (which occurred in October, but given the frigid weather, is still timely).
Yes, those are my garden remnants you see poking up in the foreground - guess who didn't till under the garden in the fall?
Between my untilled winter garden and my squeamish response to today's carnage, it's official:
I have flunked farmer.
I hope spring will bring the renewal of my farming spirit. And the ability to put food in my mouth once again. And, I hope I can close my eyes tonight without seeing a replay of all the sights and sensations of this afternoon's gut fest.
Love from the farm,