*Disclaimer: some images in this post may be considered slightly graphic in nature. I have chosen to present those images as thumbnails. Click to reveal a full-sized version. This post is an entry for Project Food Blog Challenge #4 which asks contestants to create an instructional photo tutorial. If you like it, vote using the Project Food Blog contestant widget in my right sidebar (scroll down) from 10/11-10/14.

As bloggers we have, at the minimum, a social responsibility, and, some argue, a journalistic one also.  Because of that, I inject a modicum of meaning into every wacky post I conjure. A how-to tutorial is a perfect place to make a difference, and I hope you take these words and pictures in the spirit in which they were intended. While this post is a departure from my molecular madness, I hope it becomes apparent that it’s all interconnected; after all, we need the raw materials before we can manipulate them in clever ways.

A brief history of why (sorry if you’ve heard this before, I’ll be quick): I was a vegetarian for over 20 years as a result of a traumatic experience as a child. My father bought me a calf one summer. I named him Slobber. I bottle-fed that wet-nosed gangle of awkwardness through his youth and we became best friends. Slobber had the run of our fenced acreage, but for me that wasn’t enough. I fashioned a leash for him from the ones we had for the dogs, and proudly walked him through the front yard, down the street, even to the neighbor’s house. I fed him the choicest scraps from my own plate and invented an imaginary world in which we were BMX racers, astronauts, or ice-cream vendors depending on the day.

At the end of the summer I went to stay with my grandparents for two weeks and when I came home, there was a hamburger on my plate. My dad asked me if I knew where it came from. The store? I answered, cautiously. No, we killed your cow so we would have meat for the winter. This was the first I had heard about eating our livestock; to me it was tantamount to cannibalism. Initially it catapulted me into my room in tears, and ultimately I made a stoic resolve never to eat a living creature. Nearly 30 years and a gradual return to omnivorism later, I look back at that as a missed educational opportunity. I should have been raising Slobber lovingly, but with the knowledge of why I was doing so.

Now I know firsthand that an animal raised with utmost care and then slaughtered to be eaten by reverential people is a vital thing. It took many years to get to this place, however, and I don’t want it to be the same for my child, which is why I try to get him involved in the process even at the tender age of two. It is imperative that we know where our food comes from. Yes, this is a trend among us who preach to the choir, so forgive me for beating a dead horse, but farm-to-table should not be a trend, it should be a given. With that in mind, I am going to show you how a chicken raised on organic feed and grass from a top-notch sustainable chicken farm in Washington- Stokesberry- leaves the field and lands on your plate.

a chicken tractor- note the eaten grass versus the ready-to-be-eaten grass

Once the chickens are old enough, they are taken to the pasture and are corralled in what are called “chicken tractors.” These are essentially 10x12’ floorless enclosures made from chicken-wire, wood and siding.  Every day, the chicken tractors get moved 10 feet to a new plot of grass. This is beneficial for several reasons. First, the chickens have fresh grass (and as much organic grain as they want) both to feed on, and to fertilize with their waste, thus creating a viable pasture for cycles to come. Next, the tractors protect the chickens from coyotes, raccoons and other predators.  Thirdly, because the tractors are not cramped, the chickens have plenty of room to roam within, yet not so much that they grow too lean and muscular, which is why chefs and consumers started taking issue with 100% free-range birds.

preparing to move the tractor (turkey in this case) to the next plot

Compared to a typical concentrated animal feeding operation (CAFO) where chickens are stacked a hundred deep and sometimes three high and never see the light of day, small-scale chicken tractors are palaces. (However Janelle and Jerry Stokesberry liken their chickens to urban apartment-dwellers. There’s plenty of space but it’s not McMansion-style living since that’s not a practical way to raise chickens- or people for that matter.) It is important to note that Stokesberry Farm is Janelle and Jerry’s livelihood. While they started the farm because they believed in providing healthy food to the community in a way that also fosters positive growth for the earth and people, they are not Pollyanna about what it means to run a business.  Their practices have to be streamlined and efficient while at the same time being mindful of good ecology. The concept of the chicken tractor is a great example of that because it is both humane and economically-feasible. Prior to the chickens being tractored in a particular pasture, cows are brought in to “pre-mow” the grass in order to achieve optimal height for the chickens, which drives home just how cyclically-sustainable this concept is. Incidentally, the chicken tractor was pioneered by Joel Salatin. You can read about his working farm and more on chicken tractors here.

weighing chickens

Stokesberry farm grows mostly Cornish Cross birds, and they are typically ready for butcher within eight to twelve weeks. The farm sells to local restaurants, butchers, and also at farmer’s markets. Restaurant chefs order birds with precise weights, so on the day of slaughter, Jon, the farm’s right-hand man, gathers birds from the tractors and weighs them. Assuming they lose roughly 30% of their weight when they are dressed out, Jon is mindful to select birds accordingly.

a barrowful of chickens earmarked for Seattle restaurant Sitka and Spruce

After the birds are weighed, Jon cages them and brings them to Jerry, who operates the kill station. The kill station consists of three main areas: chicken slaughter funnels, a scalder, and a plucker. The slaughter funnels are conical with head-sized holes in the bottom. The chicken is placed upside-down in the funnel so that just the head peeks out-thus providing easy access to the jugular. There are several sizes of funnels, depending on the girth of the bird being slaughtered.

slaughter funnels

It is worth mentioning that the vast majority of chickens produced in the US are killed by a machine.  By removing the individual from the “dirty-work” aspect of the process, machine-killing also creates a disconnect from the accountability associated with taking a life. Because of this, we often forget that our meat was a living creature at one point, which can lead to over-consumption. Medium-scale farms like Stokesberry that still shoulder the burden of responsibility for their animals inspire their patrons to appreciate the valuable service they provide. If you can’t kill it you have no business eating it, which is why I jumped in and helped Jerry at the kill station, and later helped Janelle process the freshly-plucked birds. (I personally killed 12 birds of the near-100 we processed that day.)

plucker

Once the birds were upside-down in the funnel, we used a sharp knife to make a clean, deliberate slice across the jugular vein. It is quick and painless, I am told.

clean jugular cut

bleeds out

The birds bled out for several minutes, and then we moved them to the scalder. The purpose of scalding is to loosen the skin so the feathers will come out in the plucker. The ideal temperature to scald a chicken depends on the size and the skin thickness, but Jerry tends to make sure the water is between 145-150°F.

ready to be scalded

We hung several chickens by their feet from the dipping wand, then plunged them into the water all-the-while agitating them for 20-25 seconds (Jerry counts his seconds in “hippopotamuses” which I find endearing).

chickens in scalder

Plucking is perhaps the single easiest aspect of the slaughter process if you have a fancy plucking barrel, but the hardest if you have to do it by hand (like I did with these turkeys last year). We simply tossed the chickens (a few at a time) into the plucker, turned it on, counted 15 or 20 hippopotamuses, and all the feathers were gone, save for a few tail-feathers, which we took care of with pliers. Right after plucking, the head must be removed, which I found a little tricky, but got the hang of after I had done a dozen birds. You grab the legs with one hand and the head with the other, then stretch them apart while twisting the head upward, which causes it to snap free of the body.

chickens in the plucker

At this point the birds get passed inside to a room which adheres to a strict code of sterility. When I helped Janelle with the gutting I had to wear a hairnet and a special suit.

removing the feet

Different gutters do things different ways, but Janelle’s way made a lot of sense to me, especially compared to how I had done it in the past (which took 10 times as long).  First she removes the feet at the ankle joint with a boning knife.

off go the necks

plucking pin feathers

Next she cuts off the neck with a cleaver and uses pliers to pull out any remaining feathers. Then, she opens the cavity by cutting an incision around the anus of the bird and removing the scent gland. Next, she pulls out the entrails and gizzard, and finally the organs. The lungs are tricky- they stick to the ribcage and you have to sort of dig to get them loose. None of this goes to waste. They sell feet, necks, and heads to anyone who wants them, including private individuals who make stock or pet food. If something doesn’t get sold, it gets composted in their state-of-the-art compost pile. I know it’s odd to think of compost as state-of-the-art, but the Stokesberrys have it down to a science and it works like a well-oiled machine.

access hole / scent gland

pulling out entrails

After the birds are processed, they go into a cold water bath, where they stay overnight.  This is because by law, within 4 hours the chickens must be cooled to below 40°F.

water bath

I fear I have waxed too-verbose to explain the next steps of what to do with a chicken, but most of you reading this have probably roasted, barbecued, boned, sous vided, or grilled a chicken before, no? Three things are worth mentioning regarding post-gutting should you ever wish to bring a chicken from field to feast. The first is that rigor mortis sets in within a few hours after a bird is killed and you do not want to eat a chicken in rigor mortis. It makes it tough and gamey. The solution? Wait 24-48 hours, or until the legs move freely. This ties in nicely with my next tip- brine your bird. You’ve heard it before, but it really is imperative for succulent meat. You can do it during rigor mortis. I use a 5% salt/water ratio and I like to add sage, thyme, garlic and lemon to my brine. If you are going to roast the chicken, be sure to remove it from the brine, pat it as dry as you can, then let it dry further on a rack in the refrigerator. That way you will have perfectly crisp skin to go with your perfectly tender, personally-butchered chicken.

I suppose now that the cat’s out of the bag I can let you all in on a not-so-little secret.  I say that since there is apparently a preview currently airing on Fox for Gordon Ramsay’s new show, MasterChef. I haven’t seen this preview, but my facebook denizens are coming forward asking if by chance they can expect to see me on national tv due to a split second sighting of me in this preview. Curious, I asked a few people to describe it. Well folks, it’s not pretty. Apparently in my big tv debut I am a’ cryin’.  The horror. Since I don’t own a television it is unlikely I will actually witness this clip, so I guess that’s a good thing.  At first I was quite perturbed, but now I’m fairly over it, choosing to adopt the all-publicity-is-good-publicity approach.  Hopefully I’m one of those hot-bawling types, but I doubt it.

So yes, come next Tuesday, July 27^th, 2010, you can watch yours truly on MasterChef. I’m only a master of my own shoe collection and a chef for my kind-hearted friends, but it was a fun experience in which to be a part. I met some hugely talented, over-the-top, fabulous people like Charmaine, Kat, Holly, Azmina, & Emme (along with a slew of others without blogs but who are equally as remarkable) with whom I hope to have lifelong friendships, so for that it was certainly worth it.

Casting for the show was quite an arduous process in itself. Initially I created sous vide duck confit three ways to impress the folks judging the Seattle casting call.  I made sous vide purple Peruvian potatoes and homemade sea salt, which serve as backdrop to three aspects of the duck confit.  There was the confit itself, in its elegant, undressed glory flanked by a touch of rendered duck gras on one side, completed by a glistening cube of geleéd mirepoix.  In the Le Creuset cocotte I made a four day cassoulet de canard.  I confited Moulard duck legs in a sous vide water bath for many hours so that their unctuous umami would present itself, then showcased them in a cassoulet where everything was homemade, from the bacon to the stock to the sea salt, which I collect and distill from the waters of the North Pacific Ocean.  Finally as a palate cleanser I composed a salad of homegrown maché and delicate baby carrots that served as foil to marbles of duck confit mixed with my secret recipe quince pureé.  When I finally got the call stating, “Linda Miller Nicholson, pack your Seattle bags!  You’re going to Los Angeles to be a part of MasterChef with Gordon Ramsay, Graham Elliot, and Joe Bastianich,” I was shocked beyond belief.

Once it came time to head to LA for filming, I reprised a slightly different version of these Dungeness crab cakes.  You’ll have to watch the show to see how they were received; all I can share with you is that I required a drill to make them.  So that’s my secret, now back to the regularly scheduled programming of cooking up deliciously esoteric food for this prized, beloved blog of mine. If you happen to catch the show, let me know what you think!

I’m applying for a patent on this one. It is going to be very difficult to describe the extraordinary nature of this dish without employing the use of exuberant expletives, but I will try.  It all started with a strawberry picking and tasting adventure a mere one hour from Seattle and yet worlds away.  As my city-slicking Mercedes rolled through the gentle flats of the Skagit Valley, signs encouraged drivers to “slow down and follow your nose” which I did with aplomb.  The fertile flats of Skagit produce some of the finest grown goods in Washington, and stellar strawberries are no exception. Our small group had the great pleasure to tour and visit Skagit Sun berries as well as listen to the insightful musings of Farmer Don on the history of his berries and cucumbers (that sentence was not meant to sound dirty, but upon rereading it, I suppose it could be misconstrued).

Photo courtesy of Luuvu Hoang

We participated in a blind tasting of eight varieties of strawberries; I had no idea there would be such a vast difference in flavor.  In the end, I preferred two varieties: Shuksan and Hood. Shuksan berries are sweet and red throughout, with uniform flesh, a short shelf-life and unbeatable versatility in terms of complementing sweet and savory dishes as well as being great fresh or cooked.  The Hoods were piquant and almost candy-like in flavor with a thorough, intense sweetness that lingered on the palate for ages.  It is the height of Shuksan season right now, so get them while you can. Farmer Don was kind enough to let us pick our own flats of Shuksans so my mental wheels got to turning whilst we were out there under the haze-laced sun plucking away.  I love jams and jellies as much as anyone, but I was not about to preserve these precious plumpies for posterity.  I decided on both a sweet and a savory application, and somehow the divine inspiration of the strawberry gods put the idea of chocolate pasta into my head (well that and a conversation with my friend Luuvu).

When I got home, I promptly made a custard of Shuksans and lavender that would become ice cream the next day.  I also whipped up a crema pasticcera (pastry cream) infused with lavender with which to fill the chocolate pasta sheets.  The next day, the real work began.  {INSERT TERRIBLE CONFESSION HERE} Regular readers of my blog will know that I’m a primadonna pasta purist. I do not crank out sheets of pasta, I gently roll them with an old wooden pin, then cut whatever pasta I’m forming using a pastry cutter.  As far as tools go, I’ve always been happy (to make pasta 3+ times a week) with my pin, cutter and a glass of wine.  Well, the universe conspired and produced a gift certificate and a HUGE sale I couldn’t refuse, so long story short, I’m now the proud recipient of a pasta attachment for the Kitchenaid.  This chocolate pasta is the second I’ve made with it, and the most unfortunate part is that I no longer seem to need the glass of wine while pasta-making. You see, the wine acts as a thirst-quencher between rolls, but when a machine takes all the work away, you no longer require parch-abatement.  I suppose the pasta machine will help cure my excessive wino-ism, but it has also taken a little piece of my soul along with it.  I’m vowing to hand-roll at least once a week- we will see how it goes.

For the pasta, I made a typical dough of flour and eggs, to which I added Dutched cocoa and a touch of sugar.  I was worried about the consistency, but it rolled out beautifully and crimped together perfectly to form round discs filled with pastry cream.  I made the pasta around noon and did not boil them until 9pm, so they sat on a parchment-lined sheetpan for many hours with no refrigeration. There were no ill-effects of this, as they boiled up nicely and the texture was perfect.  Since my pasta would not be complete without a sauce, I boiled down Shuksans into a compote with butter, sugar and Grand Marnier.  I put it through a sieve to remove the seeds, then drizzled the sauce over intermittent rounds of ravioli and scoops of ice cream.  This is the part where I would use some holy s3*TTTT expletives to describe the wow-factor of all the complementary flavors and textures in this dish, but I promised not to, so I’m going to have to go stuff my gullet full of sweet sweet bliss aka chocolate ravioli and bid my adieu to you. Until next time, keep it super real out there in the spectacular sunshine.