Lower 70s, overcast, light breeze. We couldn’t have ordered up any better weather for the work we were about to begin. At 8:30 am the ceremonial recital of Farm Country was complete, and the machete makes its first mark on the chopping block.
This year marks the 5th year of the Jochim Chicken Plucking Festival, the fourth one we’ve participated in. If there is anyone in the area that knows how to butcher chickens, it’s our crew, that annually gets together to partake in this rite of passage. For most of us, the novelty of the event has worn off. Perhaps I was the only one who thought of it that way to begin with. There’s the typical trash talking and commentary that goes around to make the day interesting of course, but everyone who participates regularly has fallen into a focus and determination, where the day is just the means to the end result, a freezer full of fresh, organic chicken meat.

Our assembly line system, or rather, our disassembly line system, has become so refined, and the laborers so skilled and experienced, that the process gains speed every year. Granted, less birds survived this year, 89 total. But our pace was still impressive.
I start cleaning feathers. The chickens in the kill box smell pretty bad. Chickens really are nasty creatures. I like dead ones a lot more than live ones! I move over to the gutting table for a while. The experience of putting your hand into the warm carcass of a bird that was alive five minutes ago is one you just don’t forget. I did my first real gutting last year, but it seems to be like riding a bicycle. No problems, I didn’t bust the gall bladder one time when cutting the liver and gizzards out. Had troubles with that last year. I’m the floater this year, I move over to the cleaning station for a while. I end up there most the rest of the day, moving around when other stations need extra help.
12 noon, lunch break, 59 birds done. Kenda presents the 5th anniversary cake, and we drink a toast to, well, I’m not sure really. The birds? It’s unfortunate for the birds that the qualities we value in them are their ability to die quietly, lose their feathers easily, and how fat they’ve become in the short lives.
Back on the line at 1pm. Last bird through the system at 3:30, good thing because the sun has broken through the clouds, and it’s getting muggy, making the bugs pretty bad. The crew on the front end of the line already have the line broken down and cleaned up. We had enough time to sit on the porch and relax for a bit before heading home.

I don’t have final numbers, but three birds weighed in at 7.25 pounds (cleaned weight), one at 7, and the smallest at 4.5. From a look at the raw data, our average had to be over 6 pounds, putting us a half pound per bird over last year’s average.
At the end of the day, Brian, this year’s Rookie, says “It was a good experience.” My response: “We don’t do it for the experience anymore, we do it for the birds.”
Here, in all it’s glory, is the reason we sacrifice a day in June to butcher chickens. A freezer full of a dozen turkey-sized chickens, along with our half cow.
It’s 9pm as I write this up. When I close my eyes, I still see the insides of a chicken carcass. I still feel the ribs on my fingers from swiping lungs out all afternoon. We won’t have chicken for dinner for a while, and for good reason. It takes some time to recover from the process.
Happy eating, chicken crew! See you all next year.





























