My father had a weakness for stray , so I grow up with an ever - changing zoological garden that waxed and waned as they came and locomote . Some , too disordered or qualified to go back to the wild , stay ; others were eager to heal and point for home . He had a lenient spot for the reject and unwanted , the malign , the mangy , the motley and even the villainous : raccoons , crumb , crows , a caiman he must have smuggled back with us from Florida , even a lonely squirrel monkey he distinguish at the shopping center . And , of course , there were all the usual suspects : fink , budgies , dogs , rabbits , hamsters , fish and a funky - smack stray tomcat named Wally Walnuts , along with the duck and chickens . It all seemed perfectly normal to me .
I bed all the animals , but it was the unique relationship we humans can have withchickensthat left the most permanent scrape on me . I never stopped wanting chickens again : Through college , government agency work and years of apartment living , it was out of the question , but I longed for a stack of my own . I was that urbanite , sitting in front of her computer until late into the night looking at pictures of coops , exotic breeds , hens , roosters , impossibly sweet and flossy child chicks .
I say and learned , dreamed and planned for the twenty-four hour period I ’d bring my poulet home to roost . Until then , I could always garden , and I did . Oh , it was a lush garden ! Soft , cool areas of grass for lying on , edge by broad swaths of wild , tall perennials and self - sow annuals topple out of control — my own fiddling English bungalow garden flop in the heart of the metropolis .
I planted my veggies in goodly run-in , way of life of old brick I ’d line up countersink in between ; volunteerEchinacea , monarda , gooseneck loosestrife and first light glory added colour and enticed pollinators and hummingbird . At the stature of summertime , I could hide myself from the world behind tall , tangled masses of pinks , White , reds , purples and commons … and then the chicken came .
My chicken fixation had been attain a crescendo . I was get frantic ; the cravings were bad . So when the last hinderance , a stick - in - the - clay boyfriend , got the heck out of my way , I did it . I go in search of my first flock and fetch home rescued X - battery hens , aka ex-wife - bat : two goofy Leghorns and a Rhode Island Red . One of the Leghorns was blind , so I named her Helen , as in Keller . The other was her support , and they stuck together , so she became Annie Sullivan , natch ! The red ink ? Ginger .
Every time of year the hens teach me something new about Gallus gallus - keeping , gardening , compromise and delight the import amidst the impermanency of life . And speaking of impermanence , while he did n’t live to see it , I know Father would have mat up aright at home in my garden , my chicken coop and my kitchen , complete with my own feathered menagerie ofstrays .
The way I see it , hen keeping is a natural wing of the kitchen and garden ; it ’s a symbiotic relationship as honest-to-goodness as agriculture between human , hen and plants . In the tip of summertime , when my ladies are laying well and the garden is in major product fashion , I will pour down outside my back threshold , take in a couple of egg — sometimes still quick from the hen — then visit the garden to see what ’s ripe and quick . I ’ve made utter meal from five - mo “ mart trips ” into the garden , feeling abysmally pleased with myself and grinning like an idiot the whole time . It ’s been said in a number of ways by a many folk throughout time : “ Hunger is the best sauce . ”
I love that old adage but would like to tot a scattering of gratification and a panache of self - sufficiency . That stuff is darned tasty !
This article was reprinted with permission fromHappy Hens & Fresh Eggs : Keeping chicken in the kitchen garden , with 100 recipes(Douglas and McIntyre , 2015 ) by Signe Langford , available wherever Quran are sold .
