Pontchartrain #4 is the chicken who couldn't be tamed. No matter how many hours I spend tiptoeing to catch it, snatching it up in one quick movement followed by gentle petting and complements in a soft voice, it won't have it. Each time it catches a glimpse of me coming toward the yard, this thing runs in utter terror with a type of bounce easiest pictured while imagining a galloping ostrich. It's a tall-standing rhythmic yet nerdy-looking escape with its neck craning neck following the inertia of its burst from stillness to max speed. A poor egg-layer at best, this one is nothing short of a pain in the rear most days but does provide some comic relief and welcome entertainment.
Today, Jerome and I went to a vegan potluck....
Lemon pudding:
1 whole lemon,1 lemon w/o peel,2 avocados, soaked dates, pineapple juice for sweetening.
Kale Chips: Miso, garlic, shallots, Braggs, lemon juice in blender or food processor, coat raw kale and dehydrate from 4-6 hours on waxed paper in dehydrator, turning 1/2 way through
Horchata Popcicles (make horchata and freeze)
....and I returned home between 10:30 and 11:00 to find that the door to my coop had somehow closed with only two of the chickens inside.The rest were snoozing against the outside wall of the coop or found random nooks and crannies in the yard which made for an interesting late-night chicken retrieval mission by the light of the moon...and less romantically, my blackberry screen.
This night, I discovered how very endearing it is to have even the bat-out-of-hell chicken listlessly flopping in my arms as I stumbled to the coop over the empty plastic flower pots, garden tools and whatever else. I immediately was taken back to a time when I was small enough to tote up the stairs after a long night of popcorn and Gremlins. Not even bothering to hop onto the perch, it flopped down where I set it on the floor of the coop. Pulling me out of my nostalgia, I then began to wonder if it were dead. Checking for breathing, I concluded it was just a tuckered out piece of poultry and continued to escort the others inside. Most were also too tired to move and others reacted as though I were a bear and my arms were its clenching jaws of doom. I couldn't reason with them and transported them as fast as physically possible, suffering only minor surface abrasions.
The new chicks are snoozing in their Tupperware container (pictures tomorrow?), the medium-sized chicks are huddled in the corner of their compost bin-turned impromptu coop and the bigguns are sprawled out summer-style on the coop floor in positions that would concern me if I hadn't put them there myself. It is, indeed time for bed.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Document This!
Raising chickens has been rewarding, mentally and physically challenging, and (depending on the day) anywhere from worry-free to totally stressed.
Today, I experience all of the above.
Today's Lesson: Clip chickens wings even if they don't try to fly and even if you think they're too fat to get their portly little poultry selves off the ground.
Foreward: In bed around 6:30 in the morning, I hear the voice of the little girl from down the street, "Good Morning Chickens!" This reminds me of one of the main reasons I choose to continue my animal adventures. They have brought the whole neighborhood to my house at one point or another with questions about the experience, requests for eggs, kids excited to have their own petting zoo, and even the local police and city hall enjoy omelets, complements of 701 (my abbreviated address). Despite the majority of this entry projected as a dramatic tale of chickendom, I truly do enjoy every day on my little urban farm.
And now for the tale:
With three new hoodlum country chickens dropped off at my house, the chicken day from down under began....
The awkward meeting between the new Barred Rocks and my Orpingtons was to be expected. What I did not forsee was the quick flying lesson my Orpingtons receive when one of the Rocks decides the front yard seems like a good place to explore. (my house is at the corner of a busy intersection) Sprinting around my house (thank you fence-builder who has something against gates), I am successful in terrifying the escapee and it then wants absolutely nothing to do with me or my giant human arms which prove to be inefficient capturing devices. Used to my big-bootied mamma chickens, this one is fast. There's a small noise let out with each spring in its step that, despite the true cause of adrenal response, makes it seem like more of a cartoon character than inarticulate livestock.
Then I look up.
Chicken TORNADO.
The Orpingtons are testing their newly-discovered wings and flying around each other, at each other, onto each other. Chaos. The Barred Rocks were watching with as much of a smirk as their beaks could form, thinking "City Chickens." '
Problem turns into full-on situation in less than 45 seconds.
Finally I corner the Barred Rock adventurer by the sunflowers and it jumps back into the yard in terror. I stuff all of my new pilots into the coop which is way too hot for them to be locked into all day and decide to freak out for a few minutes before calling for back-up.
The wing clipping which ensues is complimented with angry flapping and chicken noises which have not been made before by my Orpingtons. Cursing learned from these new Barred Bumpkins, I'm sure. Next, I'll walk outside and they'll all be toting Red Ryders and the back yard littered with squirrels and blue-jays. When I demand to know what happened, they'll lie for sure - another habit learned from the striped heathens.
Wings are clipped, all chickens back to pecking at the ground and doing their calm, chicken-things.
Problem solved....Right?
After a late lunch and half of a mini bottle of muscato, I look out at my newly earth-bound friends to witness one of the new Barred Rocks snuggling up to the plastic fencing around my garden where there are squash vines traveling the length. They like to lay under the large leaves since there's not much shade around 14:00. A stream of words (some made up and some ghastly) comes from my vocal chords as I watch this jerk take his entire body and roll it into the fence, breaking the netting. Immediately, the rest of the 9-bird flock streams into the garden and starts to ravage my squash, kale and start to head for the tomatoes.
Come On! You have hollow bones! How is this happening?!?
Despite dieting recently, I am now wondering if I could eat 9 whole chickens in the next few days. That makes 18 chicken legs, 18 pieces of breast and 18 wings. I could have a barbecue. Or a potluck.
No, no - that won't do. Then I'll have to clean the house and get the hay unstuck from the bathroom drain.
Instead I step on it to Lowe's, get some yucks from the check-out lady when I tell her why I'm in such a rush and quickly install the new metal* fencing with an allowance at the bottom which is at an angle outwards for some extra reinforcement.
After the 2nd half of that muscato and some google-ing of baby animal pictures to de-stress, I collect the eggs for the day and give a few to the police chief who sits on the main road looking for speeders (he must have been busy about an hour ago).
This was probably the most stressful day ever as a chicken-owning twenty-something however I do realize that it wouldn't have happened if I would have heeded the warnings of about every chicken magazine, homesteaders manual and forum out there.
Note to self: Clip chicken wings, chicken wire fencing on garden, *slowly* introduce new birds
Since it's 10:23 pm now, I don't want to eat them anymore, I am glad that I am able to share the experience and eggs with friends, family and strangers. Looking back on the day, it is pretty comical even to someone who has been pooped on and struck with chicken wings of fury. I wouldn't tell them to their faces, but their conniption was not all that bad.
And Here's a photo of one of the Barred Rocks and I later in the evening after the dust settled:
Today, I experience all of the above.
Today's Lesson: Clip chickens wings even if they don't try to fly and even if you think they're too fat to get their portly little poultry selves off the ground.
Foreward: In bed around 6:30 in the morning, I hear the voice of the little girl from down the street, "Good Morning Chickens!" This reminds me of one of the main reasons I choose to continue my animal adventures. They have brought the whole neighborhood to my house at one point or another with questions about the experience, requests for eggs, kids excited to have their own petting zoo, and even the local police and city hall enjoy omelets, complements of 701 (my abbreviated address). Despite the majority of this entry projected as a dramatic tale of chickendom, I truly do enjoy every day on my little urban farm.
And now for the tale:
With three new hoodlum country chickens dropped off at my house, the chicken day from down under began....
The awkward meeting between the new Barred Rocks and my Orpingtons was to be expected. What I did not forsee was the quick flying lesson my Orpingtons receive when one of the Rocks decides the front yard seems like a good place to explore. (my house is at the corner of a busy intersection) Sprinting around my house (thank you fence-builder who has something against gates), I am successful in terrifying the escapee and it then wants absolutely nothing to do with me or my giant human arms which prove to be inefficient capturing devices. Used to my big-bootied mamma chickens, this one is fast. There's a small noise let out with each spring in its step that, despite the true cause of adrenal response, makes it seem like more of a cartoon character than inarticulate livestock.
Then I look up.
Chicken TORNADO.
The Orpingtons are testing their newly-discovered wings and flying around each other, at each other, onto each other. Chaos. The Barred Rocks were watching with as much of a smirk as their beaks could form, thinking "City Chickens." '
Problem turns into full-on situation in less than 45 seconds.
Finally I corner the Barred Rock adventurer by the sunflowers and it jumps back into the yard in terror. I stuff all of my new pilots into the coop which is way too hot for them to be locked into all day and decide to freak out for a few minutes before calling for back-up.
The wing clipping which ensues is complimented with angry flapping and chicken noises which have not been made before by my Orpingtons. Cursing learned from these new Barred Bumpkins, I'm sure. Next, I'll walk outside and they'll all be toting Red Ryders and the back yard littered with squirrels and blue-jays. When I demand to know what happened, they'll lie for sure - another habit learned from the striped heathens.
Wings are clipped, all chickens back to pecking at the ground and doing their calm, chicken-things.
Problem solved....Right?
After a late lunch and half of a mini bottle of muscato, I look out at my newly earth-bound friends to witness one of the new Barred Rocks snuggling up to the plastic fencing around my garden where there are squash vines traveling the length. They like to lay under the large leaves since there's not much shade around 14:00. A stream of words (some made up and some ghastly) comes from my vocal chords as I watch this jerk take his entire body and roll it into the fence, breaking the netting. Immediately, the rest of the 9-bird flock streams into the garden and starts to ravage my squash, kale and start to head for the tomatoes.
Come On! You have hollow bones! How is this happening?!?
Despite dieting recently, I am now wondering if I could eat 9 whole chickens in the next few days. That makes 18 chicken legs, 18 pieces of breast and 18 wings. I could have a barbecue. Or a potluck.
No, no - that won't do. Then I'll have to clean the house and get the hay unstuck from the bathroom drain.
Instead I step on it to Lowe's, get some yucks from the check-out lady when I tell her why I'm in such a rush and quickly install the new metal* fencing with an allowance at the bottom which is at an angle outwards for some extra reinforcement.
After the 2nd half of that muscato and some google-ing of baby animal pictures to de-stress, I collect the eggs for the day and give a few to the police chief who sits on the main road looking for speeders (he must have been busy about an hour ago).
This was probably the most stressful day ever as a chicken-owning twenty-something however I do realize that it wouldn't have happened if I would have heeded the warnings of about every chicken magazine, homesteaders manual and forum out there.
Note to self: Clip chicken wings, chicken wire fencing on garden, *slowly* introduce new birds
Since it's 10:23 pm now, I don't want to eat them anymore, I am glad that I am able to share the experience and eggs with friends, family and strangers. Looking back on the day, it is pretty comical even to someone who has been pooped on and struck with chicken wings of fury. I wouldn't tell them to their faces, but their conniption was not all that bad.
And Here's a photo of one of the Barred Rocks and I later in the evening after the dust settled:
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