larkandkatydid:
My boss slaughters his egg chickens either every fall or
every other fall depending on how old they are when he gets them, on the logic
that the personal hassle and carbon foot print of getting chickens to lay eggs
in the winter is not worth it. As he was explaining this recently, a newer
co-worker asked how he hid that from his children. And
she’s new, which means she’s never had the delightfully goth experience of
watching my boss’s two charming dimpled daughters who are ALSO deeply unsentimental
farm children respond to you with utterly withering scorn if you ask them
something like, as I once did, “oh, what’s that chicken’s name?” The oldest
daughter, all of four years old at the time, told me in a firm,
Wednesday-Adams-talking-to-a-moron voice, “We’re going to eat them. They’re not
pets.”
My boss, who is gentle and does not respond to people with
scorn when they ask innocent questions, instead told her, “Oh, we’re pretty
open with them about the facts of life.
They know where babies come from and where chickens go.”
Anyway, that phrase haunts me and I wanted to share it with you. It sounds like some 19th century grandma saying.
