I have a confession to make. I have kept this secret for too long and I feel compelled to share it with you now. I have been obsessed with chickens for years. “Chickens?”, you might ask. “That’s you’re big secret???” Big deal a lot of people have loved a lot of chickens for a lot of years, right? The chicken (or the egg…I’m not sure which came first) can be traced back to Asia circa 6000 BC. So yeah, a lot of people have loved these birds, but I tried to hatch one. No, I don’t mean in an incubator with expensive lights, gizmos and chicken hatching doohickies. No. I literally pulled an egg out of my mother’s refrigerator and proceeded to sit on it for what seemed to be an eternity. It was more likely just a few minutes. I hid in a closet and dreamed of what I would name my chick. She would naturally understand every word I said and would respond only to me. I would name her something clever and all my friends would be jealous. It was a pretty solid plan. Then I got bored (this seems to be a common theme I’m noticing) I got so bored and so tired of waiting for this egg to warm up and hatch that I soon left. I left that egg in that closet for days. It eventually began to smell and I handled it. I threw the egg out and was covered in shame. In that moment I realized how dumb my plan really was, but I was desperate to have a chicken to call my own.
Fast forward a few decades. My fascination hasn’t faded and it is with great pride that I present Henrietta, Cosmo, Nugget and Scout (originally Omelet). These are my girls (actually Scout keeps us wondering; no eggs, but quiet as a church mouse). I love them, I named them, they come when I call ( if I have food and they are hungry) Mission Accomplished.