Shambrook - I CAN CAN CHICKEN! ! How to home can chicken to save money and time with quick, easy, tasty family recipes

Canning chicken might seem like an odd pursuit to you, but I grew up with a grandmother who routinely canned chicken. Her name was Hazel Orelia Carlisle Johnson, but I called her Mammaw. She was half Cherokee with beautiful black hair. She lived in the country and kept chickens for both eggs and meat.

Mammaw was quite entrepreneurial with an independent spirit. She always had several revenue streams flowing into her pocket book. She was an expert seamstress, sold Stanley Home Products, made quilts and crochet items that she would sell, and she sold eggs.

Hazie Johnson

Her hens were as industrious as she was and hence (pun intended) very productive. Not only were they fun to watch in the yard, they supplied enough eggs for both her large family and additional eggs to sell for a little brown egg revenue stream. The hens were hard working little creatures. They gave eggs for food and would also self-replenish by deciding to hatch out baby chicks from time to time.

When you order chicks from a hatchery, you can specify that you want only females, if egg production is what you are after, or males if you are raising them for meat. But when Henrietta decides to get broody and sit on a nest, you just get what you get. The baby chicks would mature and some would have the future job security of egg production. Others, those of the crowing persuasion, were looking at a future in a quart sized Mason jar. Roosters dont lay eggs, so they would have to earn their living by forming a partnership with some cornbread dressing or a pot of dumplings.

Mammaw would decree a day when she would whittle down the chicken population. The excess roosters and most of the retired hens would end up in a pressure canner. Rather than pluck her chickens, she would just skin them. She would can the meat on the bones, but all excess fat was removed with the skin, so you would end up with fat free chicken that was ready to be added to a casserole or stew or whatever was on the menu for that day.

Of course, a few roosters were allowed to stay around to help keep the hens in line an d do their part in making baby chicks. One of my earliest recollections of my Mammaw was when I was about three or four years old. I was staying with her out at the farm and a couple of my uncles (they would have been teenagers at the time) asked to take me outside to play with the baby chicks. Keep an eye on her, was Mammaws instructions to them.

Well, they did keep an eye on me, but so did one of the roosters. He was quite offended by this chubby little miniature human prancing around his yard, chasing his children, annoying his hen harem of wives, and most importantly, being the center of attention in HIS domain. He decided to just deal with matters by teaching me a lesson I would never forget . He stretched his neck out, flapped his wings and flew over at me dancing on his tiptoes, squawking, pecking and spurring my chubby little legs.

My uncles were right there, but before they could even react my Mammaw was through the back door, down the steps and in the yard with her hand around that roosters throat. With one fluid action, she swung that rooster around over her head, slammed him down on the tree stump chopping block, grabbed the hatchet from the chopping block and WHACK! Off came that roosters head. All those things seemed to happen before the screen door even had time to slam.