Warm Chicken Butts

My husband said a declarative “no” to chickens. Despite his generous willingness to go with most of my scatterbrained schemes, this time his resounding no has echoed for days, weeks…no feathery friends roaming about the yard, cutely pecking their way about the green grass, joyfully lifting their warm bottoms for retrieval of eggs, only minimal squawks (probably more likely to occur when having their necks scruffily rubbed, like our feline friends adore). Is it plainly clear to see that no romanticism exists in my head?

“What about the noise? What about our cats? What about the neighbours?” he asks, gently but firmly at the same time. “But the eggs…the eggs…those golden nuggets of nutritional, organic goodness straight from the chicken’s butt…” My argument did not sway him in the least. “Support local, then” he responded, dashing my dream. “Buy them from the lady down the street.”

Ah, the lady down the street – a jolly senior who recovered in what seemed like a week from a broken hip, who once lived on a farm but is now in town, she still has eggs brought to a fridge in her garage. Anyone who knows about the luxury of her farm-fresh eggs can show up at any time, unannounced, and after throwing a meagre amount of money into a tin can above the ancient fridge, grab these afore-mentioned fresh eggs. Sometimes, and sometimes not, she will pop her grin-filled face around the door, to examine who is invading her golden stash, and politely inquire as to how your family is.

The very first time my husband sent me on an adventure to her home to get eggs it was about 10:30 at night. He clearly instructed me as to how to get there, and I clearly did not follow directions. The first problem was figuring out what door to use – the only true door appeared to go into the house whereas he had plainly explained it was a door-door, not a garage door…I used all my might to yank open the garage (thinking ‘how could an 80 yr old use this regularly?’) to have an inside light automatically turn on, blaring directly into my eyeballs. Half-blinded I wandered about the garage looking for the famous egg-filled fridge. I saw bicycles, tripped over a stack of newspapers, found a pile of snaky electrical cords. Back in the far, far corner there appeared to be a freezer, but no fridge. After what felt like hours I gave up. Admitted defeat and went home. Turns out I was at the wrong house – I had been unknowingly infiltrating the neighbour’s fortress.

But turns out that my romantic vision of golden nuggets of nutritional, organic goodness almost straight from the chicken’s butt is reality…without the fantastical piles of manure, scratchy, pecking beasts clambering to escape my cats, and noisy serenades (from both poultry and neighbours in response to poultry)…all I have to do is go down the street and fetch them! Yum yum...