the domestics' tranquility

Most of the feed is eaten by the squirrels, but we still call it a bird feeder. It sits on a stout pole under an aging maple tree, which threatens to obliterate it by randomly showering down rotten branches.

It does attract birds in addition to squirrels, and in our early chicken-years, it was a favorite hangout of the hens.  Every morning they would pour out of the keep en masse, round the garden shed & waddle up the front steps to get to the black sunflower seed spilled beneath it by the squirrels & jays.

Now that they are cut off from the feeder, the hens appear to remember the generosity of their wild kin.  I scatter their measure of scratch each morning & head down to the cul-de-sac for the newspaper.  By the time I return, band-tailed pigeons and blue jays have doubled the population on the ground.

The hens are always chasing each other away from the feed, but no heed is paid to this new crowd that only shows up for breakfast.  As I approach, the jays back off in an untrustworthy manner, but the skittish pigeons head for the tree tops where I can hear their heavy wingbeats as they move from branch to branch.  The hens don’t look up, pigeons, what pigeons?

Coo, coo, ca choo.

the chick or the eggs?

Cosmolopsically speaking, I vote for the chicken, but for me personally, it was the eggs.

For several decades before encountering an actual chicken in the wild, I had to learn how to cope with eggs.  Swallowing them with a bite of toast got me through breakfast.  Afternoon eggs, deviled or hard boiled, weren’t so egg-like, or could be rendered edible by the extravagant application of salt.

Then, in the winter of 1978, having developed an interest in woodworking, I began making daily trips to my grandparents' house, first to refinish a delicate writing desk my grandfather had made as a young man, and then to build a cabinet for my parents.  I worked with my grandfather’s tools in his dark garage which was lined with shelves of narrow cedar boxes filled with salvaged fastenings.  A little door next to the vice opened so a long board could extend outside through the wall.


My grandparents enjoyed the return of their prodigal grandson, so long as I left each evening with the garage as orderly & clean as on the morning I first arrived.  One day, my grandmother offered to make me lunch, and when I sat down, placed before me a plate of scrambled eggs like I had never seen before, which no amount of salt or toast could have improved.


Several years later, when it was too late to ask, and remembering only that she had added some parmesan cheese, I set myself the task of recreating her eggs.  Failing repeatedly, I chanced upon an article on egg scrambling methods and, so found in my skillet one morning a passable resemblance to my culinary grail.

I make my grandmother’s eggs by adding a touch of milk to a couple eggs, which I whip energetically with a fork, to mix in air.  I cook them quickly in butter, stirring all the while so they will cook uniformly, removing them from the pan as the last runniness disappears.  If all goes well, a soft, yellow cloud of eggs graces the plate.

They may not be my grandmother’s eggs exactly, but they are as close to them, and to heaven, as I will ever be.


Coo, coo, ca choo.

the old man & the hen

The hen is not young, but she is many years younger than him.

Of all the hens in the flock, only she seeks him out, asking for attention.  He feels a special bond with her because of this, though he knows she shares her affections with anyone who enters the run.

Does she want to be stroked, or is she hoping he will let her peck at the cans of feed before he scatters their contents under the cedar?  He would prefer not to know.

Her loyalty is fleeting.  He knows that as soon as he turns his back, she’ll try to slip around him to get to the open gate. 

She is a pragmatist.  She never dreams of storms or flight.

He is sentimental.  He wants to protect her.  He watches for cats in the dusk.

Coo, coo, ca choo.

oval argument

Life has been uneventful in the chicken run, making it more difficult to generate a story every Monday morning.  None of the hens are running for president, and so, are not in sync with the daily, or even weekly, news cycle. Someday, a female will be elected to the highest office in the land, but she will probably be a species of mammal, not a bird, and definitely not a chicken.

Performance during the debates will be a major obstacle for any bird aspiring to higher office, but the achilles heel for chickens specifically is national defense.  Defense is a thorn in the side of many human politicians, but “chicken" is an especially loaded term in this regard, and unlikely to be overcome the political advantages of having been raised on a family farm.

Coo, coo, ca choo