Speaking of Chicken...

Speaking of Chicken... I was---before I was so rudely interrupted by snow, snow and more snow—talking about chicken poop and what lovely fertilizer it makes. And those of you who had run right out and applied the fertilizer to your dormant gardens are probably feeling pretty dang smug right about now.

I didn’t actually apply it to my gardens—yet-- I just give advice, I don’t follow it. If I had, I would be taking a measure of comfort right now, knowing that under the thick blanket of frozen snow, the chicken fertilizer was slowly breaking down and feeding nutrients into the soil, waiting for that magical day of melting...that day when the sun comes out and the ground begins to warm...when plants and leaves and tender green things all begin to sprout...Spring arrives in exactly 21 days! Or, at least that’s what my calendar promises.

But, as I mentioned, I haven’t actually applied the chicken poop to my flower beds. Right now, it’s more imaginary than actual. When it comes to chickens, I often find myself with more imagery than action. Take, for example, chickens themselves.

I frequently imagine having chickens...I’ve seen the cutest little chicken coops on Pintrest...and my neighbors have chickens...I like the way the fat, black and white hens look...I like the soft, gentle sounds of contentment they make, scratching under the hedge for bugs and grubs...I even like the way the rooster is so protective and puts himself between the hens and I when I come over to shoe them away, because holy heck, the dang old chickens have dug up my plants, kicked my beauty bark out into the yard a good three feet, go home you stupid, wee beasties, and the last thing I want to hear at O’Dark Thirty is dueling roosters.

I really like the way chicken tastes...Fried chicken, and chicken a l’orange, and chicken and rice...

Enjoy this gratuitous picture of my grandson, dressed as a
chicken for Halloween. You're welcome.