I miss my chickens. This is something I never thought I would find myself saying. But there it is. I miss my chickens. But maybe I should start at the beginning.
I have a friend, Kathy, who more or less rents a couple of chickens every summer and lets them roam around her yard and flower gardens, eating bugs. She found an antique coop where the chickens spend the night, secure from the various predators—foxes, coyotes, raccoons—that are common in Vermont and always hungry. When I pull into Kathy’s driveway, the chickens are generally out in the yard, looking around for a Japanese beetle to eat. And they are strikingly decorative. They just do something for the scene. One has a kind of salt and pepper coloring and the other is a very dark, almost mahogany, brown. And, finally, they do lay eggs, which Kathy likes to make into omelets—or a nice quiche—for lunch. After a few visits, I began to envy her those chickens.
When I mentioned this to my daughter, one day, she said, “No problem, take mine.” » read more