Confessions of a chicken snob

A few weeks ago, I drove down the road oblivious to the fact that I would have no defense for what I was about to see. I was going to do chores for a neighbor. Innocent enough, right?

Defenseless, I tell you.

My resolve had been broken slightly the week before, when I did chores for the other neighbor. I'm considering blaming this whole thing on them.

I didn't even see it the first time I walked in the door.

It was sitting in the corner. On the floor. Naked wings spread out trying to protect a runaway pile of eggs that a normal sized chicken could easily have covered. It avoided eye contact with me, because that is the best way to hide. Even my two-year-old Bean knows that much.

I picked it up by it's armpits. Do chickens have armpits?

It quivered and shook.

I aimed it at my husband and squealed, "What is this thing!?"



And then I fell in love with it's bald head...



and it's wings, which apparently used to have feathers...



and it's tiny feathered feet...



I wanted to take her home.

I'm a hypocrite of a chicken rancher.

There. I said it.

I agonized for months over what breed of chicken to order when I started my flock. Months? It was more like all winter. I had to have a heritage breed. It was the only thing that made sense to me. I wanted to have a hardy flock with real history, and a real future.

Well, that was all good until I couldn't decide between Barred Rocks or Buff Orpingtons. Both have a reputation for being remarkable birds. So I ordered both, thinking I would decide which I liked better and harvest the others when the time came.

The next Spring, since I had followed through with my plan so well (ahem), I ended up with mixed breed chicks. They were beautiful. I kept three and gave the others away. Then, quite by accident, I discovered that my particular mixed breed was actually one that is commonly sold.

I held my head sort of high once again.

You see how well this "heritage flock" thing is working out for me?

I wanted to take her home, you know.



But she doesn't belong in my barn.

So instead I took these. The most disorganized mixture of hilarious chickens-to-be you've ever seen.



I took them straight home to my barn, and tucked them underneath my own grumpy hen. Nine more days... and The Old Nichols Farm will have fugly chickens too.

They make me laugh. I'm pretty sure that's more important anyway.

But if I ever manage to bribe convince my husband to let me keep turkeys, let me tell you... I guarantee they're going to be the most beautiful, intelligent, personable, heritage breed Bourbon Red Turkeys you've ever laid your eyes on.