Chicken ladies in the hen hizz-ouse

Staying up really, really late one night paid off when I was able to jump on an offer through the Twin Cities Chickens on a cheap-or-for-trade coop. I ended up trading handmade soap and a bunch of canned goods for this nice coop to the right. It's not winterized (yet) and there's not a good way to enclose them for the night beyond making sure they're in the coop/run, but it's great for two hens (which is what I can have in my city without a permit) and a great start, too.

The ladies themselves came from Craigslist. A woman was picking out what birds she wanted to take to the fair and which would stay, and had some year-old Buff Orpingtons that she wanted to find homes for so that she could keep some of the younger birds. While Partridge Cochins were tempting, ultimately, I went with the Buff Orpingtons because they were already laying and are better layers in general. When you only have two hens and you want some eggs, you gotta get a breed serious about their egg-laying.

The ladies aren't too thrilled with our dog, kids, or me, and didn't want me going all paparazzi on them, but I managed to snap this picture of Beatrice (on the left) and Mabel (on the right). I think that's who is who. My husband decided that the fatter one is Mabel and, thus, the skinnier one is Beatrice. Beatrice had a bit of an adventure today when my dad let the dog out of the house when the back gate happened to be open. It took three adults and a pint-sized neighbor boy to corral her, which the neighbor boy eventually did. I told him he'd have to come visit our chickens sometime, and he seemed eager to do so. This, however, emphasizes the need to put a wee bit of fencing between our garage and the neighbor's fence, as that is prime small-creature escape-route area.

The ladies had a nice dinner of our leftover dinner. I hope they sleep well, and that someone leaves me an egg tomorrow (preferably in a spot I can access easily).

Chicks love me

Me and Pippi, Frances, and Katy
have a special bond. (Photo
courtesy their mama.)

My friend Karen (of mamalooma) is living the chicken dream. Whereas I promised myself last year that 2010 would be the year of the chickens, I did not achieve that goal, and I still haven't worked up the guts to apply for a chicken permit. Part of it is because I resent having to jump through hoops and appear in front of a city council to justify using my own land for my own purposes. But it's mostly that I have a terrible fear of authority figures, even if they're just councilpeople in a rather small city, and do not wish to be publicly humiliated. I am afraid there's some neighbor out there within the 300 feet of the corners of my property who has a life-long phobia of chickens and will protest vehemently, and I will be able to do nothing but cry.

But Karen has jumped right in. Granted, she lives in a different, chicken-friendly city, but it's still quite the plunge. Today I had the privilege of meeting her little ladies: Pippi, a Barred Rock; Frances, a Silver-Laced Wyandotte; and Katy, a Rhode Island Red. Katy's the assertive, adventurous one of the bunch and Pippi's the runt. Frances likes to peck me. But they all seem to love me. Just call me the chicken whisperer. Pippi quickly hopped into my lap, and when I told Frances that she could come up, too, she did so, with Katy not far behind. Instead of pecking the ground, they snuggled me.

Attempts at getting a neighborhood robin to join us was not met with success.

And I saw a giant earthworm and freaked out.

However, I remain very impressed with Karen's cute little urban garden and her even cuter soon-to-be-finished chicken coop. I hope I will get to visit her ladies often, and think I'll bring them some (much less frightening) tiny worms next time I visit.

Today I earned my PHD.

Callister Farm, located in West Concord, Minnesota, held its second processing class today, and I am grateful to have had the opportunity to attend (and equally grateful to have shared the experience with my friend Kate). If my memory serves, there were nine of us plus the Callisters, and each of us slaughtered, dressed, butchered, and packaged a chicken.

I was expecting more blood and guts and gore than what I got, but I'm not complaining. I stood and watched the chickens die, as I felt they were owed that, and although at times it was difficult to see people who were not skilled in slaughter doing the deed - myself included in that group - it was less difficult to watch the life go out of the chickens than I expected. As Kate pointed out before I stepped up to kill my bird, "These are happy chickens. They lived a good life." That was a speech I needed to hear at the time. It was a lot more difficult to dispatch a chicken than I expected; the feathers and skin provide more resistance than I thought they would.

Strangely enough, I thought the plucker was the worst part, with the thumping and speed and random glimpses of feet. But, boy, does it do a good job.

The farm is lovely and Lori Callister did a fantastic job teaching and encouraging us. Her stories and the family's dedication has solidified my desire to avoid mass-produced meat. Treating the birds with respect and care takes a lot of work, and that is something I need to support.

I've heard it said that anyone who eats meat should take part in the slaughtering process at least once to get an appreciation of where their food comes from. I heartily echo this sentiment, and hope the Callisters continue to offer this opportunity to interested individuals. My eyes were opened even further (and I have a chicken for my oven) for 40 bucks.

And if you need further proof that the Callisters treat their animals well, I offer this tidbit: I crouched down and opened my arms to one of the many layers scratching about the yard, saying, "C'mere, chicken," and it came to me and let me pick it up. I challenge you to find THAT at a Gold'n Plump farm.

Resolved

This will be The Year of the Chickens. First order of business: Submit a permit application to the city. If all goes well, this blog should get a lot more interesting in the coming year.