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Alright. I’m wondering this morning how many chicken pickers we have out there. … I see a little hesitancy out there. Some of you are asking for a definition.


A chicken picker is one who removes the feathers from a chicken during the process of preparing the bird for the dinner table.  The effort is usually performed in the backyard, but certainly can be done in the kitchen or garage in case the weather is wet or cold, or both.

My chicken pickin’ days are over, but I’m happy to report that I have picked many a chicken in my day. Here’s the full story.

When I was a wee one, back in the depression days, my parents would send an order for a hundred baby chicks. It would be sent to a chicken hatchery back in eastern Kansas or western Missouri. The order was sent after the brooder house, located out behind the main chicken house, had been thoroughly cleaned and disinfected. It was just about this time of year when the order was sent, and of.cpurse it was cold outside.


And so the day old chicks needed heat, and Dad drug out the brooder stove to do the job. The stove consisted of a kerosene tank, a regular small stove attached, and a a very large metal hood that would be placed safely over the stove and close to the floor. The chicks would get under there and be very toasty.


The order placed to the hatchery was always for 100 “”straight run” chicks. Straight run meant that half of them were male and half female. We would eat the males and grow the females to full maturity when they would join the rest of the flock as layers. Occasionally we would dip into the laying flock for an older hen who would become half the ingredients for chicken and noodles. My Mother was without question the best chicken and noodles preparer in Ford County!

And so the Post Office would call when the baby chicks arrived by train. The Post Office would literally have stacks of baby chick boxes, indicating that everybody ordered at about the same time so that they, too, might enjoy fried chicken about harvest time when the young poults would reach the weight of approximately 3 pounds.  Actually, when the birds reached 2 pounds they were considered fair game, but there would be more if the family could be convinced to wait for a little more growth.

When the time was right, Dad would go to the brooder house after dark and catch the biggest one he could find,  Since chickens can’t see at night, the selection job was easier. The bird was put under an old wash tub and the next morning after chores and breakfast, Dad did his thing and the bird was ready to process for lunch.  Mom had a bucket of very hot water ready, and the headless bird was plunged into the water until his feathers became very easy to dislodge. Then Max and I would pick the chicken. When we took it in the house for Mom to dress, she would
singe  the bird over a stove flame to remove the usual tiny hairs that did not come off during the picking process.

When Mom completed the dressing process, we had 2 legs, 2 thighs, 2 wings, 2 sides, a wishbone (we called it a pully bone) a breast, and of course a gizzard, a liver, and a heart. Max and I would fight over the gizzard. One chicken was enough for a family of four, as long as there was plenty of mashed potatoes and god, thick, creamy gravy containing little bits of the skillet crumbs!

Who says the Dust Bowl days were bad? It just depended on whether or not you could locate a capable chicken picker!

Kay Melia is a longtime broadcaster, author and garden in northwest Kansas.