Killin 'Chickens

I don't often tell this sadistic tale, but it played a roll during the formative period of my life. My family was deeply involved in the slaughter of thousands of innocent chickens. In fact, they were  a very efficient, well oiled killing machine, made up of professionals who struck fear into the heart of every unfortunate chicken they ever encountered. Where my grandma did tread, chickens were dead. She was legend

The art of chicken killing was lead by Busia Kramarczyk, the innocent appearing former nun-candidate. As a young woman, she  left a promising career as a nun, to become one of the most formidable and feared chicken killers on Detroit's tough west side. Clyde's Bonnie had nothing on Grandma who was admired within her circle as both an accomplished killer of chickens and as the top chicken plucker and pin feather singing expert in the neighborhood. 

For the uninformed, singing  means to singe and has no musical implication. It refers to the act of holding a chicken carcass over an open flame to burn off the delicate  feathers left after plucking.
When grandma plucked and singed a chicken, that chicken stayed plucked  and singed for good. He knew his goose was cooked.

This dark event took place every Friday evening behind the shuttered windows and locked doors of Busia's headquarters, in the back rooms of the family grocery on Waldo. The entire neighborhood went into lockdown mode as the knives were lithely sharpened by the lady's skilled hands.

 As the oldest male child in the family, it was expected that I should play a role in the secret doings of the K-Clan. And so it was, one evening shortly after my 10th birthday, I prepared to accept my role.

The macabre scene was set. Grandma K entered the shadowy room with her ritual knife and a sharpening steel in hand. Our clan gathered and soon the first victim was dragged into the room screeching and cackling as it entered. The chicken was bound at the feet with  heavy twine. The creature stared with glazed eyes at the figures  gathered around him in the killing chamber.  We all glared back. There would be no mercy shown- no reprieve - not tonight. 

Say your prayers you fowl creature, uttered Busia, prepare to meet your maker, as we all glared back at Chicken Little.

 It made not a single squawk. He knew his fate was sealed. He had admitted that he was a bad egg. There was no chickening  out on for  this bold feathered prisoner. This bird was definitely not a chickenshit punk. Just before the sharp knife slid across his neck, he looked up and saw the ghostly apparition of his nemesis, the colonel himself, all the way from his home in Kentucky where he made the best fried chicken in the land

Busia took hold of the chicken and softly administered the kiss of death on the chicken's cheek before handing him and her sharpened knife to Uncle John. He sat positioned with his legs on either side of a large bucket. With one quick motion of that gleaming razor-sharp ritual knife, John slit the throat of Mr. Little from ear to ear. Then in one swift motion held the chicken's headless neck over the bucket to catch the drippings. Up until then, I never knew chickens had ears ...  I still wonder if they have lips.

It was my first taste of blood, literally and figuratively. The chicken's blood spurted from the neck wound and splashed across my face. Czarnina I blurted. No son, my dad said, Czarnina is made from duck blood, not chicken blood. I could see that I had a lot to learn.

Suddenly that zombie chicken, headless but somehow energized, was determined to take revenge by attacking my grandmother. I jumped out from the protection of my father's sheltering body and lurched at the crazed fowl.  I almost missed him but somehow managed to grab hold of a leg err.. drumstick, and brought his cold dead body to a dead stop.  "Good work boyczyk", said Busia.

The slaughtering commenced. It was apparent that I was the designated chicken catcher. I had passed the initiation. The dead chicken bodies had been tossed into the bathtub after each assassination where they awaited a their final fate. Huge kettles sat on the antique gas range in the kitchen. The water was boiling over. One by one the decapitated bodies were tossed into the pot for a minute or so then pulled out. The plucking frenzy began.

Feathers flew and the smell of wet chicken feathers permeated the room. After the last body had been plucked, the naked bodies awaited their final assault. One final step awaited them. The kettles came off the stove and the flames were left burning. One by one, busia deftly rotated the bodies over the flame and singed off the light layering of soft feathers that remained on the bare chicken flesh.

 It gave me goose bumps. The smell of burning feathers was horrendous. Each naked chicken body was gently washed, dried then finally wrapped in butcher paper, then neatly stacked where they would lie in state in the big walk-in cooler in the store.

They began arriving early Saturday morning to claim their bodies. The people had no regard for what had transpired the night before. They were concerned only about the dead chicken bodies that awaited them in the walk in. A line formed as each body was weighed then priced, before handing it over to the crazed customers.  On average each brought in less than a dollar and a half. Life is cheap.

When the store closed, I walked over to Busia and quietly asked: "Why do we do this, week after week - slaughtering these innocent creatures. Why? Why? She looked at me, smiled softly and said, "people gotta eat".  Made sense to me. l couldn't wait until next  week. Go wash up boyczyk and I'll fix you a nice chicken sandwich.


But after a few months of this chikenening experience, I realized that I never really enjoyed eating or killin' chickens.  I thought about becoming a vegan but never lost my blood lust. I took to slaughtering beets, which when cut give off a blood red liquid that seems to sooth my need to kill.