Don’t be chicken

Fried chicken was the main event on our Sunday after church dinner table. It was a team effort between my mom and my dad. At our residence in East Los Angeles we raised dozens of chickens in our middle yard. Dozens of Rhoade Island reds. We probably raised about forty or fifty hens and two or three roosters. Just enough rooster to hen ratio to supply plenty of fried chicken and scrambled eggs.
When my dad went to the feed store to buy another fifty pounds of chicken feed he was given another 25 baby chicks. In order to keep them warm or incubated we placed the little fuzzy yellow chickadees in a wooden orange crate and kept them inside in front of our small gas heater. Never mind the baby chick smell. We got use to it.
Then about every weekend or so in the backyard my dad would dispatch two or three hens, ring their necks, and drop the main body into a tub of boiling water. Done so to make it easier to remove the red feathers.
Once all that was finished the featherless headless hens would be given to my mom who was expert at disemboweling each bird. Then separating legs, thighs, wings, breasts, etc. into separate parts. Making a chicken easier to fry in a big cast iron pan. Just scoop in 2 or 3 tablespoons of old bacon fat, get the pan to sizzle, and put in the chicken parts. Look at those guys fry. Boy did that smell good.
Then we got the bad news in the mail. We received a letter from the Los Angeles county health department to cease and desists. My dad was told to get rid of all the chickens which the health department determined to be a health hazard for the neighborhood. What we conjectured the whole process of rendering the hens was a bit noisy and not a pretty sight to see. Especially as observed by our next door retired German couple. They just didn’t appreciate the management of chickens and the many steps it took to process them into table food. Plus I think our German neighbors got tired of my brother trying to sell them eggs.
So, we got rid of all our roosters an hens. As a result, we had more roast beef than we had fried chicken for Sunday dinners. Its what we had to do as Okies living in Los Angeles. Just roll with the punches. Pass the mashed potatoes please.