I grew up on a farm in the west of Ireland in County Galway. My mother raised turkeys for extra pocket-money. She fed them, killed them, plucked them and disemboweled them, she called it “cleaning them out.”
Many was the day myself and my sisters sat at the kitchen table, eating our “well done” dinner and watched our mother chase a turkey around the yard with a yard brush. What’s a yard brush? It’s a massive sweeping brush for cleaning the yard!
When she managed to catch the turkey, and that was the most difficult part of the job, she dangled it upside down, letting its head dangle on the ground. She placed the yard brush across the turkey’s neck, stood on either end of the pole and then pulled the turkey’s legs up in the air, breaking the turkey’s neck; sweet suffering Jesus, I am glad she never tried that with me.
After the turkeys; yes there was more than one, way more than one, hung for a week to tenderise she brought them into the kitchen, one at a time. The bird was laid into the stainless steel kitchen sink and hot scalding, boiling water was poured all over it. The pores now wide open, made it easier to pluck the feathers.
After the bird was beautifully bald, she cut off his head, and then rooted around inside the bird, drawing out all the stuff that kept the poor thing alive. There’s nothing quite like the smell of turkey guts. My mother should have been a surgeon.