I am afraid I have raised a bunch
of entitled chickens.
My chickens have the best possible
life for domestic birds. They have organic feed—and not just ANY organic feed,
but the feed that requires me to drive out of town to purchase it, rather than
hauling a bag home on my bike. They have access to piles of compost full of
bugs and worms and other tasty bites. They have chicken treat (also known as
table scraps) delivered to their door, rather than dumped in the pile of compost
with everything else. They have some
grass to nibble on and they are adept at thrusting their heads through not one
but two fences to take large chunks out of the pole bean leaves.
They have a new coop which rests on
some excellent leaf mulch and straw to poke in when they are in, which is
seldom in the summer because Mark rises at the crack of dawn, literally, to let
them out so that they do not fuss and wake people up too early. They have a
nest box which they have rejected for eight months now, preferring to lay their
eggs under the hazelnut tree. They have access to a quarter of the back yard,
which includes all of Mark’s compost piles, a pool of water to stand in on hot
days, and two hives of bees. Occasionally they have to share the space with the
bunny, who can slip under the fence, or the cat next door, who also likes the
shade of the blackberry thicket.
They will live their lives out
here, protected from predators, until they die of old age. They will not be
thrown in the stew pot when they stop laying. They will be allowed to drowse in
the sun and claim the best tidbits as their own, even if they live to be twelve
years old (which is some kind of crazy chicken record). They have dream lives.
And yet—do they appreciate this
life? No. They holler. They fuss. They walk the fence. Not to get too
political, but they act like the One Percent—which they are, of the chicken
world. That is MY NEST SPOT Bertha shouts as Blondie moves under the hazelnut
tree. MINE. And they she sits on her sister, literally squashing her down. Or they all shout at a jay—my yard, my yard,
my yard—when she tries to scope out a nesting place or a bit on compost for her
own. God forbid another bird land in the pool for a quick dip! It’s embarrassing. It’s annoying. I wish I
could train them out of it, but it is their nature to protect this perfect life
for themselves, even when it costs others a good morning’s sleep or worse.
We are not chickens. But we behave
like they do fairly often, shouting MINE, MINE at the tops of our lungs,
protecting our perfect lives, no matter what the cost to others. Maybe our goal
should be to be a little less like backyard, One Percenter Chickens, and more like human beings, who are not
bird-brained and can work out compromises and share the resources equitably. And then everyone could sleep a little more
easily at night.
Frittata—what’s for
dinner when there is nothing else
Using a large cast iron skillet that can go into the oven, cook
two or three cups of veggies. Potatoes in chunks and greens are nice, but not essential.
Add garlic and herbs.
Chunk some cheese—a good handful. Beat three or four or five
eggs in a bowl. Add the cheese
Throw the eggs and cheese into the veg and stir. Cook until
there are little bubbles in the egg mixture
on the stove, the finish off under the broiler.
If there are leftovers, do not leave them in the iron pan
overnight, but transfer into containers for lunch at work the next day.
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