Mother
would never kill off a laying hen just to have sommat to eat for dinner,
it had to be one with a pale wattle or a chalky back side, one that
did not have a long life expectancy.
Mothers
Mid Week Chicken Dinner
In mid week we often
had, “chicken” for our dinner,
Tough old hen more
soup than meat, always it was a winner,
So after breakfast
mother went, to feed the laying hens,
On her way she would
note, the one who’s still in pens,
If it looked as if
not laying, she would ring its neck,
Hang it in the coal shed,
all flap and no more peck.
Pulling on the old
tea cosy, well down over her ears,
And an old mac kept
for this job, doesn’t matter how it appears.
Feathers and the
fluff do fly, and also mites do run,
This is why she’s
well covered up, as it is so often done,
With the news paper
on the table, to be drawn it is now ready,
And out with good
sharp knife, off with legs and neck all bloody
Nick below the parson’s
nose, with hand the guts she pulls the lot,
Saves the heart and
gizzard, also neck to make the stock,
Into the pot this
tough old hen, no time for it to go cold,
Steamed for a good
two hours, till lid is hot to hold.
Into the pot goes all
the veg, and a heap of part boiled taties,
Given another half
hour simmering, before it hits the platters,
We all come in for
dinner time, lunch to someone posh,
Plates piled up, our
bellies to fill, we loved our chicken nosh.
Owd Fred
