So, when I was washing dishes this afternoon I got a bright idea. I decided I needed a new career. Not a replacement for the ones I already have--I love what I do--but something to add even more dimension to my already crazy life. I hope you're not shocked or appalled but here it is:
I've decided to become a chicken farmer.
That's right, a chicken farmer. It's probably not the correct term--I tried chicken rancher, chicken grower, chicken cultivator--and nothing sounded right but chicken farmer. Once I had the moniker down, I proceeded to take action.
"Hello, honey. How's your day? Hey, you know how hard I'm working on gardening this year, trying to raise as much produce as I can to help save money. Well, think how much we could save if we had our own eggs."
There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. "No, I am not going to come home tonight and build a chicken coop."
"Just a little one?"
"How about a couple of chickens then?"
"Where are you going to put them?"
"In the chicken coop."
"I'm not going to build a chicken coop tonight."
"How about tomorrow then?"
Heavy sigh and groan. "Let me think about it."
"Okay, honey. . .you know chickens are only four dollars a piece--that's a sixteen dollar investment for countless dollars saved on eggs."
After I walked over to my neighbor's house to ask if she was interested in becoming a partner in my chicken co-op, my husband called back. "Okay, go get your chickens."
My ten-year-old was elated. "Yahoo! Chickens. I'm going to name them Indiana Jones, The Lone Ranger. . ."
"There will no chicken naming," I said. "We can't get attached to them. They're an investment in our future, emergency preparedness with beaks."
"No little scarves?"
"No knitting of chicken scarves, the scarf for the duck was an exception. These chickens will likely end up alongside dumplings one day."
When we arrived at IFA we were ushered into the livestock area. "Do you want meat chickens, or laying hens?"
"Laying hens, please. We plan to eat them when they stop laying."
"You don't want to do that. Laying hens taste horrible."
My daughter breathed a deep sigh of relief as she ran for the chicken enclosure. "Indian Jones!" she sang out with elation.
Back home it was our oldest Husky who was elated. Though she'd never seen chickens before, she decided Colonel Sanders had it all wrong. Who needed to fry when there was chicken tartare?
To be continued.