Go.  Now.  Read this, right here.

It’s a blog post from “Cultivating Home”.  I love that blog - she lives on a farm with her husband and 5 kids (the youngest of whom was born shortly after Jack was).  Her photos are always wonderful, but usually on the nicey nice side of life.  But not this post. 

This post shows the more gory side of life on a farm, and proves to us city-raised folks that chickens do not “come from the back aisles of the grocery store”.

I must say, if I would have seen these photos when I was a bit younger, I would have run screaming naked through the night, and pledged myself to vegetarianism forever.  Watching an animal lose it’s life is something I can’t rationalize to my overly emotional self, no matter how much I love me some chicken noodle soup!  I mean, shoot, I was one of those kids that would get angry if someone stepped on an ant.  Never ever could I have stomached seeing a chicken (who was just happily clucking at me 5 minutes prior) hanging upside down on my picnic table, with blood dripping out of it’s decapitated body.

I’d much rather pretend that dead chickens were born that way.  It makes frying the poor things soooo much more easier on my soul.

Tagged: Chicken Noodle Soup, Dead Chickens, Emotional Self, Grocery Store, homemade, Picnic Table

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