Why did the chicken cross the road? Because she wanted to be part of the urban chicken movement, and that’s no yolk. There really are a growing number of people in larger cities raising chickens in order to keep grocery costs down and ensure the safety of their eggs. This is called a “movement” because that’s what you call it when people in urban areas do something that people in rural areas have been doing for centuries.
When my son heard about the urban chicken movement, he decided that we should get some chickens. This was not surprising, since, in his 15 years, he has begged for every other animal from horse to toad. As usual, I told him to discuss it with his father who is just as likely to say “no” as I am, but whose “no” is more effective at stopping further discussion. In other words, I passed the buck, buck, buck. Sorry.
Now would be a good time to ask for forgiveness. There is simply no other creature on the land, in the seas, or in the skies above, that lends itself to bad jokes and clichés quite like the chicken does. And you’re hearing that from a chicken fan. While I don’t want any of my own, I wouldn’t be opposed to my neighbors having a few chickens – especially if they bring me a dozen eggs now and then.
I grew up with chickens and we lived in town. It wasn’t in an urban area, of course; I think we had more chickens than neighbors. In fact, we had a whole flock of chickens and a whole flock of children too. And they ate a lot – the children, not the chickens. But that explains the need for the chickens.
Anyway, I have fond memories of chickens. I grew up eating poached eggs with my Coco Wheats. And my mother’s fried chicken is legendary. So are the battles I had with my younger brother for the drumsticks. There are a lot of drumsticks when you cook chicken for a family of 12. But he ate faster than I did, so he always got more than his share. That still sticks in my craw.
It was always an exciting day when my father brought home the large, flat cardboard boxes filled with baby chickens. No child can resist a fuzzy baby chick, and in my mind, it answered the age-old question: Which came first the chicken or the egg. Clearly the chicken did, at least at my house.
As a child, I gathered eggs and I feared the roosters and a few of the more cantankerous hens. It wasn’t always an easy job for a chicken liver like me. But my siblings and I sold the eggs for spending money, and for a child, that was not chicken feed. I’m sorry; I just can’t stop myself.
Even scarier than the roosters, was a particular neighbor’s dog that actually knocked me and my carton of eggs to the ground at least once when I was making a delivery. I can still see him growling at me as his delusional owner assured me, “He won’t hurt you.” Maybe not. But she had her eggs scrambled that day.
Clearly, I have some not so fond chicken memories too. And butchering chickens was another one of them. My parents did the hard part, but I plucked plenty of chickens in my childhood. I can still smell the wet feathers. And I remember digging through the gizzards hoping I would find a precious gem among the grit the chickens had swallowed. In case you’re wondering, I never did. But I was an imaginative child – or maybe just a couple eggs short of a dozen.
(Deliver your eggs to drosby@rushmore.com or see www.dorothyrosby.com.)
