Chicken, Fried and Otherwise
If you want a wonderful meditation this Monday, please head over to Each Holy Hour, where great topics are being discussed: how we build our souls (ala Keats and the art of dry stone-stacking).
But here at Wazoo. . .
let us take a break from all that concerns us to consider chickens.
Our packed weekend featured Viking Fest down by the water (no pillaging occurred but there were stomach-wrenching rides and a parade in which all my people marched, including Charley), parties and barbecues, lots of time in the sun and by the water, and a late-afternoon plunge from the dock into the glittering Sound.
On Sunday evening, barnacle-scratched kids and I stopped by the Safeway for a bucket of fried chicken which would enable these tired parents to position kids on back porch with wads of napkins, after which a quick shower would lead directly to bed: an easy conclusion to a packed weekend. No more excitement, no more distractions. Just An. Easy. Fast. Bedtime.
But when we arrived home, we found something waiting for us in the driveway.
My plans for a quick bedtime took wing.
Behind the wheel, I sighed, then clucked my tongue at this portent: chicken of doom. A fowl wind that blew no good.
(I'm here all week, folks).
The girls were beside themselves. A real, live chicken.
Bea scrambled out of the car, plopped her bucket of fried chicken down on the driveway, and proceeded eagerly toward the large bird.
Now. I know most of you good folks either keep or have kept chickens in the past, but I am wary around all living creatures. I didn't know this chicken. She seemed peaceful enough. . .but how could I really tell with those inscrutable birdy eyes?
And why, pray tell, had the chicken appeared just now, when we were coming home with two buckets of fried legs and thighs (which I never, ever buy)? How had she known? Was she a Chicken of Revenge? Was she after justice for her fellow hens?
Actually. . .it seemed as though she were after the bucket of fried chicken. (This raises some ethical questions, don't you think?) "Beatrix, don't let that chicken eat the chicken!" I yelled.
I knew once that feathered neck went into the Safeway bucket, nobody would eat anything and I'd have to fry eggs or something. So I called to Beatrix, "Beatrix, pick up that chicken! Right now!"
Beatrix pursued the ginger chicken.
"Not that chicken!" I spluttered. "The other chicken! The fried chicken!"
The night was lost to me. No speedy showers, no fast dinner. Only many, many plans revolving around the beloved ginger chicken--where she would sleep, what she would eat, how much water she needed. And whose was she? A trip around the neighborhood produced no owner wringing hands in distress.
No one ate much fried chicken for dinner.
It is in times like these, when my hopes of efficiency are suddenly altered by the fortuitous hand (or wing) of chance, that I have to remind myself that parenting is sometimes about chilling out a little. So what if the kids get to bed late on a school night when they are lost in wonder? Even as I curbed them a bit, ("Do not take all the dishes out of the kitchen for Ginger Chicken," "Do not shut her into the shed (she's not house-trained as far as I know)" and "Please wash your hands before eating Ginger's fried equivalent") I was aware that for my two little town girls, coming home to a big hen waiting for you in the driveway is tantamount to miraculous.
Finally, after nine o'clock, a friend brought over a large dog crate and Ginger slept in that. The girls slept lightly and woke early. Once they realized their hopes of Ginger laying eggs had not been fulfilled, they cheerfully took her for a walk around the garden, where she ate several slugs--thus endearing her more to us, but not so much that we want to keep a pet chicken about the place.
So if you or someone you know is missing a ginger chicken, please do contact us. But please don't claim your hen until after the girls return home from school--they are head-over-heels in love with this bird and would be heartbroken to find her gone just yet. Let them say goodbye properly.
But here at Wazoo. . .
let us take a break from all that concerns us to consider chickens.
Our packed weekend featured Viking Fest down by the water (no pillaging occurred but there were stomach-wrenching rides and a parade in which all my people marched, including Charley), parties and barbecues, lots of time in the sun and by the water, and a late-afternoon plunge from the dock into the glittering Sound.
On Sunday evening, barnacle-scratched kids and I stopped by the Safeway for a bucket of fried chicken which would enable these tired parents to position kids on back porch with wads of napkins, after which a quick shower would lead directly to bed: an easy conclusion to a packed weekend. No more excitement, no more distractions. Just An. Easy. Fast. Bedtime.
But when we arrived home, we found something waiting for us in the driveway.
My plans for a quick bedtime took wing.
Behind the wheel, I sighed, then clucked my tongue at this portent: chicken of doom. A fowl wind that blew no good.
(I'm here all week, folks).
The girls were beside themselves. A real, live chicken.
A beautiful, ginger-feathered chicken.
Bea scrambled out of the car, plopped her bucket of fried chicken down on the driveway, and proceeded eagerly toward the large bird.
Now. I know most of you good folks either keep or have kept chickens in the past, but I am wary around all living creatures. I didn't know this chicken. She seemed peaceful enough. . .but how could I really tell with those inscrutable birdy eyes?
And why, pray tell, had the chicken appeared just now, when we were coming home with two buckets of fried legs and thighs (which I never, ever buy)? How had she known? Was she a Chicken of Revenge? Was she after justice for her fellow hens?
Actually. . .it seemed as though she were after the bucket of fried chicken. (This raises some ethical questions, don't you think?) "Beatrix, don't let that chicken eat the chicken!" I yelled.
I knew once that feathered neck went into the Safeway bucket, nobody would eat anything and I'd have to fry eggs or something. So I called to Beatrix, "Beatrix, pick up that chicken! Right now!"
Beatrix pursued the ginger chicken.
"Not that chicken!" I spluttered. "The other chicken! The fried chicken!"
The night was lost to me. No speedy showers, no fast dinner. Only many, many plans revolving around the beloved ginger chicken--where she would sleep, what she would eat, how much water she needed. And whose was she? A trip around the neighborhood produced no owner wringing hands in distress.
No one ate much fried chicken for dinner.
It is in times like these, when my hopes of efficiency are suddenly altered by the fortuitous hand (or wing) of chance, that I have to remind myself that parenting is sometimes about chilling out a little. So what if the kids get to bed late on a school night when they are lost in wonder? Even as I curbed them a bit, ("Do not take all the dishes out of the kitchen for Ginger Chicken," "Do not shut her into the shed (she's not house-trained as far as I know)" and "Please wash your hands before eating Ginger's fried equivalent") I was aware that for my two little town girls, coming home to a big hen waiting for you in the driveway is tantamount to miraculous.
Finally, after nine o'clock, a friend brought over a large dog crate and Ginger slept in that. The girls slept lightly and woke early. Once they realized their hopes of Ginger laying eggs had not been fulfilled, they cheerfully took her for a walk around the garden, where she ate several slugs--thus endearing her more to us, but not so much that we want to keep a pet chicken about the place.
So if you or someone you know is missing a ginger chicken, please do contact us. But please don't claim your hen until after the girls return home from school--they are head-over-heels in love with this bird and would be heartbroken to find her gone just yet. Let them say goodbye properly.
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