I always enjoy watching someone who has never been in my home enter my kitchen for the first time. I'm usually standing at the kettle preparing some mugs of something hot and caffeinated when they come through the doorway and so I'm able to observe them from the corner of my eye.
First, they note the Mt Everest of dishes that tower in my single sink. Conquering it seems to hold the same satisfaction level for me that I'm sure Sisyphus felt every time that damn boulder rolled back down the hill. I feel the same way about laundry, but on a normal day the evidence of
THAT mountain rules over the landscape of my bedroom and doesn't invade the scenic vista of my kitchen. (You'll note the use of the word "normal.")
Their eyes dart to the right and take in the treasure trove of kitchen gadgets that sit expectantly in their assigned places waiting patiently for me to pull them out and abuse them with new found recipes and madness. My Magi-Mix, the breadmaker, the very cool wizzy thing that blends up soups and jams and anything else that catches my fancy when I'm feeling like some sort of domestic mad scientist. They glance over shelves of cookbooks and do a quick inventory of the names that beam down at them. Lots of Nigella, a bit of Jamie, some Hairy Bikers, a Gok Wan, and some other assorted collections. Oh, what's that red and white one? Better Homes and Gardens? It must be American.
And then comes the moment I wait for. They look..... up.
They smile at me and continue whatever conversation had begun as they had entered the room and then they stop. It's as if their brain has just registered what their eyes reported. They look up again. I watch their eyes travel down the length of my cupboards and then stop. They look at me a moment and then they say it.
"Wow. You must really like chickens."
I'm never quite sure how to answer that. In the grand scheme of things, I don't REALLY like chickens. Sure, they're tasty enough. The Colonel has branded them as "finger lickin' good." However, the sight of one of these feathered roast dinners on the foot doesn't make me go "Awwwwww." Seriously, there are plenty of animals that top them on the list of animals that I actually like. For example, horses. That one's a no-brainer for anyone who knows me. I've been horse mad since before I could walk and in my adult years, the sharp tang of the scent of horse mixed with the smokey warmth of leather will make me close my eyes and sigh with contentment. I LOVE horses. The sounds of them, the smell of them, the feel of them. Velvet muzzles with the tickley prickle of whiskers. The coarseness of their manes and tails in contrast to the silky smoothness of a well groomed coat. Knobby knees and straight legs. The warmth of their breath. Eyes of liquid chocolate.
So, yeah. I REALLY like horses.
And dogs. And cats. And rabbits. NOT snakes. I watch Countryfile with rapt attentiveness waiting for Adam's Farm to come on so I can see the array of farm creatures that he features on the show. Calves with their cold wet noses and their warm velvet tongues. Sheep with their sharp feet and greasy wooliness. Show me a litter of piglets and I'll shriek, "PIGGIES!" to the eternal amusement and embarrassment of my daughter.
But not... chickens.
So, why (you might be tempted to ask) is my kitchen filled with chickens? They are displayed proudly along the top of my cabinets. Crowing, strutting, nesting. Cookie jars, pitchers, even a soap dispenser. Metal, porcelain, blown glass. I have a whole section of nothing but salt and pepper shakers... in the shape of chickens, of course.
It is SO obvious that chickens hold some sort of importance in the grand scheme of my psyche that for Christmas I received new dinnerware featuring these feathered creatures... from my mother-in-law. For years she has watched my chicken collection with an odd mixture of distrust and curiosity and now she's finally cracked like an egg and has joined me in the hen house. (Figuratively speaking...) The dinnerware has a whole range of other assorted accessories. From blackout blinds to table clothes to aprons.
Aren't they just the sweetest things?!?
So, seriously.... how can I say that I don't like chickens? And why ( I can hear you ask again) is my kitchen OVER RUN with them?
I blame my Grandmother. (Yes, yes, I can hear your collective gasp as I blame St Ruth for something.) Yes, I blame her. Many years ago (dare I mention the word "decade?") as the early stages of the Alzheimer's gripped and twisted her memories into things that couldn't be trusted, a seemingly innocent event occurred. It was a holiday. A big one. I don't know if it was Thanksgiving or Christmas. I just know a lot of people were there. After the feasting and the merrymaking, after the pies were cut and devoured, the female grandchildren of the family were summoned to the kitchen. There on the table, spread before us like Aladdin's treasures were items from the sacred china cabinets that stood proudly in what we referred to as the "middle" room. It was between the living room and the kitchen... thus... middle. Our instructions were clear. We were to pick items from off the table. Items that were from our Grandmother.
How did we not all break down sobbing? Was it the opiate effect of the turkey we had just consumed that caused us to fail to recognize this gesture of goodbye? These were things that (though they seemed insignificant to those on the outside) had been enshrined in the china cabinet over the course of my Grandmother's lifetime. No matter what they were, they had meant something to her.
When my turn came, I surveyed the items on the table and chose a set of chicken salt and pepper shakers. A rooster and a hen. They could be a set of Dominique or Pilgrim Fowl, but it is more likely that they are representing the Plymouth Rock breed. When the day was done, I had two and a half sets of chicken salt and pepper shakers by which to remember my Grandmother.
Again, I hear you asking.... why chickens? Why didn't you take the cut glass bell or the little plate or bowl or something else?
Look. I never said I hated chickens. I just wouldn't put them in my top five or even my top ten favourite animals. I have some good associations with chickens. Some happy memories from the happier days of my childhood. "The Minnesota Days" I like to call them. We lived outside the small town of Watertown which lay due west of Minneapolis. Our three bedroom rancher sat along a dusty strip (at least in summer) of dirt road and was nestled between two sprawling farms. Corn fields on one side, alfalfa on the other. A girl and her horse and adventure in the middle.
I remember when we got the chickens. Twenty-five of them. I seem to think they came in the post, but that can't possibly be the case. It must have been the cardboard box that they came in that made me think that. I was young. Younger than Kate. And I had a box of fluffy chicks that peeped and pooped. They eventually moved into a chicken coop in the yard. It was towards the back of the driveway and near the fence where my trusty steed, Rusty, stamped his feet and flicked flies off his back with a twitch of his tawny tail. They may have even taken up residence in a corner of his small pasture.
They grew quickly and it soon became apparent to me that we couldn't possibly keep them all (though I'm sure I wanted to!) and I learned the sad fact that of the twenty-five chicks that I had fed and cared for, twenty of them were going to meet their untimely end at a nearby farm. The remaining five would continue to reside with us and would provide eggs in return for their lives.
Four hens and one rooster. That was the plan.
You know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men, right? I'll be truthful here and admit that I don't have the foggiest notion as to how one determines the gender of a young chicken. I can check a baby bunny with a fairly reliable eye, but chickens? Yeah, right. Now, I don't know the identity of the person whose responsibility it was to "sex" these pullets and cockerels. They did a fine job of telling the difference between them. Unfortunately, they had it backwards.
In the end, we had four fine roosters and one beleaguered hen.
My memories of the chickens themselves are sparse but strong. They were fairly nondescript chickens. White feathers. Wings. Feet. Beaks. Shining, round eyes that seemed to stare at you and through you at the same time.
My grandmother had knit a sweater for me. Pink. VERY pink. Cardigan. Cabling. The chickens hated that sweater. (Or at least that was what young me told herself.) It seemed that whenever the mornings or early evenings were touched with an edge of a chill, I would wear the sweater and the roosters would chase me. Outraged by the colour. Maybe they thought I was a big worm? (See..... I had to blame the sweater because child-me would never even contemplate that perhaps these sexually frustrated bachelors were taking their aggression out on the person who fed them.)
I remember discovering that the hen had laid her first egg. Judging by the bits of egg shells and oats that were adhered to Rusty's muzzle by rapidly drying yolk, I really wasn't the first to make that discovery.
Though they didn't make much of an impact on the greater picture of my childhood, the idea of them not being there was...uncomfortable. They were a part of the fabric and rhythm of life. Without them, the orchestra of my day would be missing a small yet important instrument... like the triangle. How important they were to me became apparent one Sunday morning as I sat in the living room reading the comic section from the newspaper. The sunlight was pouring through the front window and I was a small queen looking over the front yard of her kingdom. All was good in the world.
"Mom," I called contentedly. Was she in the kitchen making pancakes? She could have been. In the idyllic world of my childhood memories, she was. "Mom, there is a dog in the yard." I had been observing the little canine sneaking up the side of the yard along the cover of the alfalfa field that bordered it. The chickens were there as well, pecking and scratching in the warm summer sun. I heard the reliable footsteps of Mom as she approached and turned my attention back to the comics.
"What kind of dog is it," she asked before she reached the vantage point of the window.
"It's small," I replied. "And brown." Mom's footsteps stopped.
"Chipper, go get Daddy." I looked up in puzzlement. Dad was in bed and on a Sunday morning, the normal routine dictated that he stay there until he determined it was time for him to get up. "Chipper," she said with greater urgency. "Tell Daddy there is a fox in the yard."
A fox?!?! My blood ran cold. I had never seen a fox before but I sure had read about them. Chicken Little met a gruesome end in the mouth of one. Dad had told countless stories about fox hunting. But to actually see one of these blood-thirsty creatures in the flesh? I sprinted for the darkened bedroom at the end of the hall.
"Dad!" I whisper-shouted over the drone of his rumble-snore as I shook his shoulder. "Dad! Wake up." He mumbled something and scowled with his eyes still firmly shut. "Dad!" I tried again. Nothing. Desperate times called for desperate measures and I did the only thing I knew would achieve my goal. I had experimented with it before with terrifying results, but the lives of my flock were at stake! With small and steady fingers, I grabbed a single hair of his mustache (at least I "think" it was his mustache!) and squinching my eyes closed.... I pulled.
The bear awoke and boy was he mad!
A roar of words flooded over me, but I was not cowed. Perhaps it was the sight of his oldest child and beloved daughter dancing in front of him in a state of frenzy, but he didn't eat me. He gave me exactly ten seconds to explain.
"Dadthereisafoxintheyardanditsgoingtoeatmychickens!"
The bed covers parachuted through the air as he leapt out of bed and started pulling on his pants while heading to the closet to get the shotgun. I flew back to the livingroom to watch the drama that was unfolding. Fox was still there. Chickens were still unaware. And now Dad and one of the family dogs were creeping along the side of the house. (At least, that is what I imagined they were doing.... I couldn't actually SEE them from inside the house.)
I had been given strict instructions to keep quiet. Honestly. Quiet. It's quite evident that I was their first child. Anyone with kids-periance knows that the one thing that excited pre-ten children cannot do is be quiet. But I tried, I really did.
Did the fox catch a shadow of movement moving towards him? Were the chickens suddenly becoming aware of the danger and acting a bit nervous? I'll never know what made the fox decide that the moment had come, but it had. I watched in horror as he pounced on the closest of the roosters. The slender feathered neck was held fiercely within the steel trap jaws. Then with a motion that reminds me of how I used to bash my brother around in a one sided version of a pillow fight, the fox shook the chicken.
My child sensibilities could take no more.
I screamed. Perhaps it was more a high-pitched and shrill shriek, but the point is that I made noise. Lots of it.
There was the echoing report of a gunshot, the black and white flash of our terrier as he streaked across the yard towards the fox, the brownish-red blur of the fox as he headed for safety, and the white crumpled heap of feathers that was the victim.
The next series of events is something that I have been scolded for by a college writing professor. She, too, had grown up in the Midwest and had some experience with the feathered fowl of the farm. She doubted the veracity of these events, but I will lay them before you and tell you they are the truth.
The chicken.... was still alive.
Into the garage where years previously I had tragically and accidently hung one of my cats (yes, until he was dead.) a bale of hay was opened and an overly large nest was made for a very poorly chicken. I have since then learned things about chickens that my child-self didn't know. For instance, they are rather fragile creatures and can be killed by shock and too much excitement. I would reckon that having the stuffing shaken out of you by a pointy toothed fox would qualify as too much excitement. It was floppy and unresponsive, but still breathing. Glassy-eyed, but still making noise. Quiet squawks and clucks as if muttering to itself with a sore throat.
Not ten yet me didn't know that, so with my child's faith and optimism, I set to work. The chicken was stroked and petted and reassured. Soft words and murmurs of encouragement. A bit of water. Chicken feed offered in a small, cupped hand. I must not have noticed my parents exchanging meaningful glances over my head.
The next morning, I entered the garage through the side door to see how my patient was doing. Now, in the movie of my life, I know how this scene would look. Dust motes swirling lazily in the sunbeams that pour through the small windows of the building. All is a dim haziness. Yet there in a bright pool of light is the nest. In the nest is a chicken. A live chicken clucking and tipping its head to the side as if to ask, "Was it you? Were you the one who tended me in my hour of need?"
I had missed my true calling. I am a chicken whisperer.
In truth, that is pretty much how I remember it. My child memory firmly believes it to be true. The chicken patient didn't walk quite straight for a few days and a few weeks later he was back to terrorizing me and my pink sweater.... but the the wiser and grown up me always has something that niggles at the back of my mind wondering if my parents had pulled a fast one. You'll understand eventually.
So, we had five chickens. A few weeks later we were up to six chickens. It was determined that an escapee from one of the neighbouring farms had heard about the top rate service given to the chickens of our flock and he stopped by to check it out.
And then one morning I woke up and there were no chickens. NO CHICKENS!?
I feared the worst. Has the fox returned to wreck his revenge? The yard was not blanketed in feathers, so that couldn't be the case. Had they flown the coop?? Seeing my distress, my parents were quick to ease my troubled mind. They simply could not stand watching me be chased by the roosters any more. My life with or without my sweater was starting to revolve around what part of our property the chickens were currently occupying and whether or not I would be spotted by them. Even that ungrateful rooster that I had nursed back from the brink of death showed no mercy.
So, they were gone. Gotten rid of. Sent away. Banished.
I had hoped that we would get more. Maybe some more interesting colours other than run of the mill white. Maybe the proper ratios of hens to roosters. Alas, it was not to be. Not long afterwards, my best friend on four legs was tearfully led into a horse trailer and he went to live out his days on the farm where he was foaled.
And then we moved from my idyllic Minnesota life to Pennsylvania.
And then I grew up.
Not because I wanted to, but because life happens and things change and you can't stop the world from turning.
You can't keep from turning ten.
But you do and you survive and then one day you're eating dinner at home with the family. The meal is "chicken pot pie." Now, to be clear. It doesn't involve a crust or a pastry. It does involve a pot. In its "homemade" state it involved big doughy "noodles" that are hand-rolled and cut and are thick and heavy and each one must weigh as much as a brick. At least that is how they felt in my stomach.
With the amount of Pennsylvania Dutch blood that courses through my veins, I'm supposed to like homemade chicken pot pie. And corn pie. And stuffed pig's stomach. And scrapple.
Well, newsflash. I don't.
So, we're sitting together. I don't think it was all fourteen of us. Some of us may have moved out by then. I don't know what the topic of conversation was that evening. Something was said that triggered a memory and I turned to my Mom and said the words that I wish I had never said.
"Mom, you know.... that was really great what you and Dad did with the chickens." My mom's fork stopped in mid-air.
"What do you mean?" There was a slight frown on her face, her eyebrows twitching more closely together like teenagers creeping closer together in the backseat during their first date.
"You know," I said sincerely. "They were attacking me all the time and then you had the stock truck come and get them one night while I was sleeping and took them away." My voice trailed off. I was watching my mother QUITE closely now and her shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.
I looked down at my plate of cultural torture in confusion and then realization. "No," I practically howled. "I ATE my CHICKENS!?!?!"
Now before you get the wrong idea, no. The chickens in my kitchen are not some ongoing memorial to the chickenly pets (let's face it... they weren't exactly useful) that I unknowingly ingested.
They are also NOT some visual reminder to NEVER trust my Mom. Yes, I'm still waiting for the day that she tells me that the miracle chicken was indeed an understudy from next door.
They do, however, tie into the storyline regarding my Grandmother's things. You see, there has always been a bit of vagabond blood zipping through my veins. Not much. A few drops here and there. It was during one of my moves that the original chicken salt and pepper shakers were damaged. Well, actually, it wasn't IN the move. I had moved in and hung a shelf and proudly displayed my little flock.
And then the shelf fell off the wall.
Someone lost part of their head. There were chips and nicks. I was devastated. My on again/off again boyfriend at the time was there. (I suspect that officially we were off again, but that didn't stop us from getting it on again. I was quite single and in my thirties at the time.) We tried to repair the damage the best we could, but our best wasn't quite good enough. Being away from home tends to make me hold tightly to things that come from home and these poor chickens were one of those things that I gripped extra tightly.
I may have gone off the rails a little bit. Just slightly. And then I discovered.... eBay. The whole train then derailed properly.
Just type in "chicken salt and pepper shakers" into the search bar and viola! A whole virtual warehouse of nothing but chicken salt and pepper shakers! I spent hours paging through them. Examining them. Refining the search parameters. Trying to find THE exact shakers that I had damaged.
But those are really unique....
And those are close!
Awww... aren't those cute?
Hey, a bargain!
And then the little boxes began arriving and soon the damaged hens and roosters were surrounded with a whole colourful flock of condiment containers.
Then I started branching out... and the rest is history. Their number has been pretty steady since I've moved to the UK. I know I can't go into TKMaxx (the UK version of TJMaxx) without supervision because they ALWAYS have chickens in assorted styles and varieties, but there are a few additions. A pretty one that looks like a blown glass bowl. I have a slate one that Jeff bought for me at the Honister Slate Mine when we were up in the Lake District visiting friends that sits proudly on my bookshelves near my computer. (The only one who is not in the kitchen/dining room.) And now my plates.
I'm not sure that really answers the WHY of it all, but it at least shows you the progression of my madness. It's not really about chickens. It's about touchstones to the past. Those chickens remind me of things. Childhood. Old boyfriends. Summer days when I was a Child-Queen. The protective nature of parents. Probably most importantly my Grandmother.
During the winter months, I put one of my Grandmother's handknitted afghans on my daughter's bed. It is lying over top of her dinosaur duvet at the moment. Every night when I tuck her in, I pull the afghan up over her. As I do, I lean down for one last kiss and to press my cheek next to hers. I whisper to her, "And here is a hug from your Great Grandmom who knit this blanket that keeps you warm and toasty." And I say her name the way I've always said it. Not Grandmom, but "Grem-mulm."
Touchstones to the past. Passing heirlooms of love into the future.
Cluck cluck.
