A duck farm in northern Indiana
“That makes it sound like they assemble ducks from pieces,” Mark says because I call the place the Culver Duck Factory. The company’s website gives the name simply as Culver Duck, not Farm, not Factory.
The PR guy, whom I contacted after our visit, says he prefers farm: “The word factory has gained a lot of negative press and is pushed by different groups to spin a bad light on what we do.” Culver Duck doesn’t piece together ducks; the place processes them—15,000 a day.
Tuesday after Memorial Day we arrive for our privately escorted tour with Tim.
On the way to one of several barns on campus, Tim tells us the company sells about 3.5 million ducks a year, mostly to Chinatowns across the United States. Ducks are processed at six weeks, like chickens, but spend less than 24 hours of those on site. The ducklings are sent out to surrounding Amish farms on the day they’re hatched, straight from the hatchery.
Baby ducks are born every workday, and before the tour takes us to the new arrivals, we pass a crate with seven or eight deformed or damaged baby ducks dying. Tim says that they’ve never had a healthy hatch rate better than 80%. Wild eggs hatch near 100% if weasels or another egg lover doesn’t find them and if they receive proper care from the mother duck. The eggs at Culver Duck, Tim tells us, are refrigerated for 3–8 days before they are incubated. Incubation is 28 days, nothing more, nothing less, which makes planning for hatchings quite easy.
In the back of the barn are stacks and stacks of crates, and I don’t even realize they are full of new hatchlings until we’re right up on them. Their quiet cheep, cheep, cheeps don’t give their location away. I hold one as Tim tells us that they are 100 per crate, and the baby jumps onto my chest and, like a kitten might, scoots over my shoulder. Luckily Mark catches it before it falls to the ground. Who knew ducklings could climb?
Ducks have little sharp points on their beaks that, at Culver Duck, get burned off right away when they are born. Tim tells us that ducks are carnivores, and bully ducklings can peck away at a more mellow one causing enough damage that many babies gang up and kill it—and THEN EAT IT!
Ducks at different stages of development are housed in the research barn, where feed and other variables are changed to try to produce a more optimal duck.
In the breeder barn are pens of ducks and fluorescent lighting overhead. Lights come up at 5 a.m., and most of the mommas lay their eggs then. Ducks produce one egg per day, six days per week. “Even ducks take one day a week off,” says Tim. Negotiated by the duck union? I forgot to ask.
We pass a wastewater lagoon, and Tim says all their water is treated on site and is used for field irrigation. The field is cut for hay once a year.
In the egg-sorting barn, lights shine on a tray of 30 eggs, and some are transparent. We see the inside of one is mostly purple, the color of a blood blister. These see-through eggs are infertile and are culled, as are any cracked, double-yolked, small, or imperfect eggs. The whole place carries a general bad smell, but here it’s almost unbearable.
Tim offers to let us see the entire operation: the stunning, killing, bleeding and plucking, but I decline. We do see ducks herded from a truck down a narrow path, at the end of which is the stunner and conveyor line, which carries the ducks, hung upside down, into the plant where they meet their deaths.
The tour took an hour, and before we part, Tim gives us directions on how to prepare duck; I tell him that I have eaten duck once, but it was greasy. He says people don’t know how to prepare them; they cook them like chicken, but that’s not the best way. He also hands us each a stick of duck jerky.
As we pull from the lot, Mark, chewing on his jerky, admits that the tour was interesting. I agree and am happy he thinks so. Picking alluring options for our long weekend up north was challenging.
The PR guy, whom I contacted after our visit, says he prefers farm: “The word factory has gained a lot of negative press and is pushed by different groups to spin a bad light on what we do.” Culver Duck doesn’t piece together ducks; the place processes them—15,000 a day.
Tuesday after Memorial Day we arrive for our privately escorted tour with Tim.
On the way to one of several barns on campus, Tim tells us the company sells about 3.5 million ducks a year, mostly to Chinatowns across the United States. Ducks are processed at six weeks, like chickens, but spend less than 24 hours of those on site. The ducklings are sent out to surrounding Amish farms on the day they’re hatched, straight from the hatchery.
Baby ducks are born every workday, and before the tour takes us to the new arrivals, we pass a crate with seven or eight deformed or damaged baby ducks dying. Tim says that they’ve never had a healthy hatch rate better than 80%. Wild eggs hatch near 100% if weasels or another egg lover doesn’t find them and if they receive proper care from the mother duck. The eggs at Culver Duck, Tim tells us, are refrigerated for 3–8 days before they are incubated. Incubation is 28 days, nothing more, nothing less, which makes planning for hatchings quite easy.
In the back of the barn are stacks and stacks of crates, and I don’t even realize they are full of new hatchlings until we’re right up on them. Their quiet cheep, cheep, cheeps don’t give their location away. I hold one as Tim tells us that they are 100 per crate, and the baby jumps onto my chest and, like a kitten might, scoots over my shoulder. Luckily Mark catches it before it falls to the ground. Who knew ducklings could climb?
Ducks have little sharp points on their beaks that, at Culver Duck, get burned off right away when they are born. Tim tells us that ducks are carnivores, and bully ducklings can peck away at a more mellow one causing enough damage that many babies gang up and kill it—and THEN EAT IT!
Ducks at different stages of development are housed in the research barn, where feed and other variables are changed to try to produce a more optimal duck.
In the breeder barn are pens of ducks and fluorescent lighting overhead. Lights come up at 5 a.m., and most of the mommas lay their eggs then. Ducks produce one egg per day, six days per week. “Even ducks take one day a week off,” says Tim. Negotiated by the duck union? I forgot to ask.
We pass a wastewater lagoon, and Tim says all their water is treated on site and is used for field irrigation. The field is cut for hay once a year.
In the egg-sorting barn, lights shine on a tray of 30 eggs, and some are transparent. We see the inside of one is mostly purple, the color of a blood blister. These see-through eggs are infertile and are culled, as are any cracked, double-yolked, small, or imperfect eggs. The whole place carries a general bad smell, but here it’s almost unbearable.
Tim offers to let us see the entire operation: the stunning, killing, bleeding and plucking, but I decline. We do see ducks herded from a truck down a narrow path, at the end of which is the stunner and conveyor line, which carries the ducks, hung upside down, into the plant where they meet their deaths.
The tour took an hour, and before we part, Tim gives us directions on how to prepare duck; I tell him that I have eaten duck once, but it was greasy. He says people don’t know how to prepare them; they cook them like chicken, but that’s not the best way. He also hands us each a stick of duck jerky.
As we pull from the lot, Mark, chewing on his jerky, admits that the tour was interesting. I agree and am happy he thinks so. Picking alluring options for our long weekend up north was challenging.
posted by Elizabeth Evans Fryer | 7:51 PM
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