Y’all.  I have baby chicks ‘ary damn where.

It all started with a little trip to Tennessee, the holidays, and the lack of give-a-damn when I got back home.  There Harriet sat—on three eggs—and I just couldn’t bring myself to take them from her . . . which was my first mistake.  Shit fire and fall back in it: broody hens steal eggs.

We are now up to eight hatched chicks and more are a’ coming.  I have bothered every doggone chicken farmer I know, and living out here in the country, I know quite a lot of proper farmers.  How to separate three hens sitting on the same pile? Got it.  What to do when momma won’t get up to teach a babe how to drink water? Handled.

How to deal with a sugar baby actually hatching in your hand as you candle eggs?  Well.  Let’s just say that I now have a favorite, lol.  And that I scream a lot when surprised.

Thankfully, my oldest son saw clear to make one of my presents for the holidays a gorgeous hand-crocheted chicken apron.  We are so going to need it.  Turns out, putting eggs in your bra (yes, I did this) can lead to some awkward mishaps around the farm (and eggy boobies).  But isn’t it just the bomb, y’all?

Of course, I need ALL the chicken things.  Let me tell y’all: this can easily lead to addiction.  I factor that a chicken leash might never get used, but won’t it make one helluva picture?  And . . . then there’s that other thing.  A bugger of an issue, really. 

I’m learning that chickens are, well, complicated. (Check out THIS ARTICLE for a fascinating look at at chicken intelligence!)

Turns out, they are capable of jealousy, anger, attachment, happiness and more.  They can assess time, make logical decisions, and have distinct personalities.  This, Batchildren, is a fly in the ointment—‘specially for my cooking practices.  I’ve discussed that conundrum in my episode 20 podcast, “A Witch’s Weight,” so I won’t go too long here.  Let’s just say that I needed to lose weight, anyway.  (See what I did there?)

Y’all, get you some chickens.  They are legal almost everywhere and they bring so much damn joy.  Farm eggs have more omegas, taste better and are just daily presents!  They add so much to your compost (yes, nitrogen rich poop) if done correctly, their eggshells can be used from everything you already know (like grinding them into your garden soil) to things you might have missed (like cooking them at 200 degrees and then powdering them for extra calcium in your diet).  And if y’all haven’t simmered any in cream yet, well. Are you even living?

Alright.  That’s enough of me wailing on the wonders of backyard chickens.

What I want to give you a heads-up about is this: I’m starting a Patreon.  The podcasts over there will be . . . different.  I’m writing stories based on Harriet and sure do hope y’all will consider giving it a listen.  I’ll give out one for free—but then, this ol’ farm needs to generate some chicken feed money.  These stories will be the kinds I made up for my sons when they were wee fellas: kinda witchy, kinda age appropriate, kinda me.  If y’all have got kiddos, this might be for them . . . or you, if you need a bedtime story from time to time.

I personally miss them.  I miss my grandma making them up as I snuggled up against her in the dark while the train blew low down the road.  I miss my sons cuddled in bunk beds, the oldest pretending not to listen above, the youngest wide-eyed and so innocent as we ran along roads of imagination in the coming dark.  I don’t have any grandkids yet—may never get them—and so, I reckon I’ll just read to yourn.

Hope y’all like chickens.  And bats.  And slow, Southern stories that wind around the back forty.  Wish me luck? 

Harriet says hi, but she’s a little busy clucking over some new butter butts. Sigh. So frigging cute.

Love y’all,
Seba