The Circle of Life (with pieces of ham)

When I was a kid my mother used to say "Children's waste goes to mother's waist" as she picked at my leftovers. I am embarrassed to admit that I did not understand this little play on words until adulthood. Probably post-college (I can be a little slow sometimes).

Having chickens has made me realize how much food our own kids waste. On the counter we have a bowl into which we scrape all scraps considered delectable by chickens (basically everything but garlic, onions, coffee grounds and egg shells). It's a lot of food.

Here's the breakfast and lunch contributions for today:

(poppy seed bread, pieces of ham, pita chips, radish tops, nibbled apple slices, cheese, milk)

But here's the good news: they turn all this into eggs. Everyday. Garbage into food!

(That egg on the left is the normal size for our chickens.

That egg on the right is some monster birthed after much loud squawking yesterday.

I'm betting it's a triple-yolker. Poor dear. )

Okay, so I'm leaving out the poop part. If I'm perfectly honest I have to admit that mostly, they turn our leftovers into poop. But does this bother me? Does it gross me out? It does not! Because we turn the poop into compost which we use to grow the vegetables that our kids won't eat. The vegetables that end up in the scrap bowl, and are fed to the chickens, who turn it into eggs...and poop. We're like our own little biosphere over here.

Manish chickens and our own fertilizer factory

A few eggs is all I ask

You know how we thought Tilly might be a rooster? Well, she’s not. She’s just large and manly and no-nonsense, in the tradition of Julia Child and Sally Ride. But, rest assured, she is all woman.

Ollie and Maggie have not yet given up on the idea that she might actually be a Billy instead of a Tilly. When my brother was visiting they tried to convince him of Tilly’s maleness by holding her up by the neck and squeezing until she uttered a strangled and pathetic little squawk. “See,” they said proudly, “she’s cock-a-doodle-doing.”

I assure you, she was not.

Other things our chickens don’t do? They don’t come when you call them (I use “chick, chick, chick, chick” because although it is completely useless, it’s fun to say). And they really don’t LAY EGGS.

Nary a one. I know they are still adolescents and have not yet reached reproductive age (my brother once described the difference between fertilized eggs and non-fertilized eggs as the difference between “eating a chicken abortion, or a chicken period.” Appetizing, I know), but we’re getting a little impatient. We want them to mature quickly and be productive, like little avian Doogie Howsers.

The gals are going on 14 weeks this Friday. They look, act, and sound like full-grown birds. But they are useless. Elizabeth Jardina calls it the “eat and poop and wait” stage.

They could start laying anywhere between 17 and 22 weeks (stay tuned for the guess-the-date-of-our-first-omelet-contest).

In the meantime, they poop.

I had no idea how much chickens poop. Chickens poop like they are getting paid for it (and they would be if Sloat would cough up some of the revenue from the $7/bag chicken manure--suckers!). I would estimate that your average chicken drops a load about every 10 minutes. Maybe 15 if they are feeling backed up.

Which is fine, and good for the garden, and basically not that offensive as far as feces goes. Except that that’s ALL THEY DO. They eat and they poop. Oh, and they eat dandelions as long as I pull them up first and deliver them to the coop. Little divas.

I wish I were more like Sarah Connor

It's a good thing he likes firefighters

I was what could accurately be described as an accident prone kid. I broke my arm not once, but twice in second grade (effing Steal the Bacon). I required stitches in my chin and my head. I sliced through a vein on my wrist (I was not precociously suicidal; we just had some really weak-ass windows in our house). I rode in my first ambulance in kindergarten after cutting my arm down to the bone after a poorly calculated fence climbing attempt.

You'd think seeing so much of my own blood and guts (fat tissue, by the way is bright yellow, like a sunflower) I'd be pretty ho-hum when it comes to trauma. But, alas, I am weak sauce. It's not the blood that bothers me, it's the fear. I can't stand the idea that one moment you are going along all la ti da and the next moment you are wondering if you are going to die. Just the thought of that bewildering terror makes my stomach churn. I've known for a very long time that the worst possible job for me would be paramedic. And so far I've been pretty adept at avoiding that particular career.

That's me in the middle, pre stitches (yes, hippie parents)

But now I'm a mom. And since becoming a mom I've spent a lot of my down time wondering how I will behave when injury befalls my own kids. My own mom was calm and efficient: she'd wrap my bleeding part in an old towel, put me in the back of Datsun B210, and whisk me off to the ER, all the while distracting me with talk of the blow-softener to come. Sometimes the blow-softener was something like an ice cream sundae, but most often it was a trip to the toy store meant to add a little sunshine to an otherwise shitty experience (the all-time worst blow-softener ever was the baton I chose after breaking my arm—duh).

Today I had the chance to test the mettle we've already established is so sorely lacking in me. While I was watering and Maggie was herding chickens, Oliver did a spectacular somersault off the hammock and landed on his head on the gravel spattered cement patio. The blood was instant and copious—a fountain of red to make a vampire ache. I mean, it was shocking.

I picked up my already scared and screaming son, screeched at Maggie to put down the chicken she was cuddling and come with me right this instant. On the way up the stairs to the house I literally ran out of my shoes (ok, they were slippers), but I did have the wherewithal to grab a clean rag and press it to the blood spigot located somewhere above Ollie's eyes.

I then began my weird, panicky mantra: ohmygod—ok—ohmygod—ok—ohmygodok. I dialed 911 because I couldn't figure out how to get both kids to the ER in car seats while maintaining pressure on the wound and also because I had this weird idea that that is what a good mother would do.

This whole time I am also totally stressing about the chickens, loose alone in the yard. I am just completely stymied by the logistics of everything. I hang up on 911, realizing almost instantly that it is an insane overreaction. Then I forget the Mister's cell number even though I dial it a bajillion times a week. I proceed to misdial the numbers of three other friends who are great at dinner parties but couldn't possibly do anything in this particular situation.

At this point, Maggie, realizing she is getting the short end of my attention, begins fake falling and then whimpering up at me as if she's been injured. Ollie is screaming his head off. 911 calls back but I can't hear anything over the screaming so I just shout "We're fine" into the phone and hope that, despite all evidence to the contrary, they are convinced.

Maggie is still doing her lame fake falling, so I say, "Look, I know you want some attention but right now I just have to figure out how to get Ollie to the doctor. He had an accident." Ollie, who looks a little like Carrie after prom at this point, starts screaming "I don't want a shot! I don't want a shot!" while Maggie whines "I want 'tention," over and over again, still with the completely unconvincing pratfalls (does she think I'm stupid?).

I calm down enough to remember how to call my husband, who is kind enough to cross worrying about the chickens right off my plate. He is so calm, in fact, that I am able to remove the rag and look at the wound. It's a little, pebble-shaped hole in the middle of Oliver's forehead, and you know what? It's not really bleeding that much anymore. The fountains have slowed to an ooze. Ollie is still shaking and carrying on like he's lost an arm, but I am considerably soothed by the sight of his cut. My hands are sticky with blood and the wall is smeared with gore, but I am starting to suspect we don't have to go the hospital at all. In fact, I am starting to suspect a little hydrogen peroxide and a Nemo Band-Aid might do the trick.

Twenty minutes later, the three of us are sitting on the couch munching crackers and reading Skippyjon Jones. Oliver has a blue fish bandage on his head and his hair is all scabby. But otherwise we could totally pass for normal people.

Which we are not. Because earlier today, as we were getting ready to leave the playground, I accidentally locked my children and my keys in the car. In the sun. It took six firefighters to unlock the minivan and get them out.

And I totally forgot the blow-softener.

Thank you, Tilly (or how to kill your pet chicken)

First, a warning. This post is about killing a chicken. So if you are a PETA member or especially squeamish, or just totally not into things like this, I urge you to read another blog today (I really like Decorno and Petunia Face and can pretty much promise they won't write about killing stuff) and to come back later when I will get back to less bloody topics, like buying shoes and overhearing my kids saying cute things.

Still with me? Ok.

After finally coming to terms with Tilly's Y chromosome, and hearing him crow, we knew we had to get rid of him (roosters are not allowed in the city and even though some of our neighbors are jerks, we didn't want our errant chicken waking them up at 6am on a Sunday).

We had always kind of joked about slaughtering him if he turned out to be a he, but in my heart of hearts I didn't really think we were made of such stuff (we're made of stuff like carnitas burritos and blended Italian reds).

But, when we called Animal Care & Control we found out that they would just euthanize him and then throw him away. Such a waste. So undignified.

There was the possibility of finding him a nice farm were he could live out his chicken days crowing to his little heart's content. Except that we had to get rid of him that day, before another day dawned and he began his macho morning crowing again.

Plus, we sort of like the whole righteous farmer act. We like the idea of being all butch about things like chickens. We aspire to be totally 4H.

So we opted for killing him and eating him.

First, I went to the gym with the kids.

Then The Mister's two best pals Chris and Mark came over.

When I got home, two hours later, Tilly was dead and plucked and sitting in a pot in our fridge looking for all the world like something you would cook and eat.

Here's what happened while I was gone. The Mister is the one holding the video camera and tittering nervously.

How did three citified pansies know what to do? They consulted our poultry bible, The Joy of Keeping Chickens. How did they come up with that ingenious head-through-the-pot contraption? Sarah Palin's turkey pardoning videos on YouTube. She's finally good for something other than Tina Fey's career.

In the end I find it difficult to watch but ok. It seems respectful and dignified. It's still taking a life and there is something that is weird to me there. But I am a meat eater so I can't get too prissy about it.

So, what do you think? Worse than you thought? Easier? And, more importantly, could you eat him? We are having people over for pozole on Wednesday. No joke.

The cost of backyard chickens

Behold!  Our chickens live outside.  The coop and run are complete.  The poop and feathers have been vacuumed from the garage.  The dryer has been scraped and cleaned of hardened flecks of chicken shit.  This is the moment I've been waiting for.

And just how much has this whole thing cost us so far?  A breakdown:

Chicks ($4.50 each), feed, lamp, cage, the whole starter shebang: $101

Salvaged wood and window for coop: $40

Straw, more feed, chicken feeder and water dispenser: $90

Plastic roofing material, chicken wire, and hardware cloth: $102

TOTAL: $ 333

We pay almost $4 per dozen for organic eggs.  If my math is correct, we will break even on our 999th egg.  Who feels like a sucker? Not me.  I'm still glad we did it.

Good Fences Aren't Helping

Photo from here.

Because I am crazy and suffer from bouts of civic mindedness and extreme optimism (tempered, thank god, by bouts of dark realism), I decided recently to start a neighborhood collective. I was inspired by a story I edited for the June issue of Sunset about a woman in Portland whose collective is all friendly and community-minded and whose members buy bulk veggies together and knit and walk and do all sorts of other super-earnest activities as a group.

Tomorrow is the first meeting. At our house. Only eight people are coming. Maybe 10. And to tell you the truth, the same thing that always happens in the aftermath of my attacks of vim and vigor is happening; I lose my mojo and start to realize that I am already a stressed-out, over-committed working mother of twins with a dog, a husband, and four chickens.

And then, today, right at the apex of my waning enthusiasm for hosting a civic meeting in my backyard, my weirdo neighbor (not invited), started giving us grief about the chickens. In fact, over the course of ten minutes he threatened to barbecue them, deep fry them, and skin them and gut them in "three minutes flat." He threatened to call Animal Control.

Now, this neighbor has always been someone to avoid—our own personal counter-culture Boo Radley. He's the guy who, during my wedding shower ten years ago, stood in his back yard a mere 20 feet from our hyper-feminine wedding frenzy loudly practicing his bull whip skills. I kid you not. He's also the neighbor who, during our Obama fundraiser last year, started hanging McCain t-shirts in his window and sticking Palin bumper stickers to the glass. This is a man with a bright pink goatee and a completely tattooed head. He smokes pot in his backyard and on occasion has made me look at his "art." He stopped me on the street once and, apropos of nothing, told me he likes to dress his photographic subjects in nothing but leather hoods.

In other words, he's strange and unappealing, but he's seemed harmless enough in an answer-your-door-in-nothing-but-a-pair-of-black-bikini-briefs (which he once did) kind of way.

Anyway, you can imagine just how neighborly his smarmy threats and his unfounded fear of "chicken lice" have left me. Answer: not very. In fact, if it weren't for the comparative unflappability of the Mister, I most likely would have engaged in a very unbecoming screaming match with my unsavory neighbor. Instead I rolled my eyes and huffed while the Mister tried unsuccessfully, but very gamely, to tempt him with fresh eggs.

Neighborhood collective? With this bunch of weirdos? When will I learn to just keep to myself and mistrust the rest of the oddballs out there?

Thanks. I needed to get that off my chest.

Help us name our chickens and win a prize

Oh yes we did.  Four little five-day-old black fuzzballs. And now our whole household is just plum chicken crazy.

 As you can see, we're having a little trouble naming them (I feel that the Mister, smart as he is, is particularly handicapped). So far we have one Barred Rock named Tilly, who is proving to be something of a bully, and a Cuckoo Maran named Lucille, after Ms. Ball. 

But otherwise, we're at a loss.  I'm liking Kung Pow and Cashew, for the two remaining chicks, but I'm not sure. 

Send me some suggestions.  If we chose your names, I'll send you an advanced copy of Novella Carpenter's not-yet-released book, Farm City.  Ms. Carpenter is sort of the inspiration behind our new urban farmyard, though, so consider yourself warned. 

A thing I like

My coworker Elizabeth Jardina's blog about the chickens at Sunset. She's a fact checker extraordinaire and my go-to gal for all sorts of chicken-related information.  Also, she warned me against this and I didn't listen. 

The Eighth Habit

It's sort of amazing how capable the Mister is considering he keeps all his to do lists on little scraps of paper—the torn edge of a newspaper will do—that he tucks into various pockets. At any given time there are at least three of them going at once.

I just saw one of his lists (it was in the back pocket of his jeans) and one of the items says, "make moonshine." First chickens, now moonshine. We are going to start punctuating our sentences with "coot coot" pretty soon.

All 86,400 seconds in the day

Image available here.

I realized yesterday morning, as I was microwaving my oatmeal, that every second of my day is accounted for.  Ninety seconds before the oatmeal dings?  Time enough to wipe down lunch boxes, pack two yogurts, and put carrot sticks in plastic baggie. Need to pee? What a good opportunity to carry this basket of laundry back up the stairs. Kids eating grapes?  Check email.

I miss the days when staring off into space was a perfectly good way to spend and extra 30 seconds.  And, honestly, we Schoechs are built for it.  As my brother has said, "Never interrupt a Schoech in the middle of a good stare."

A thing I like

Elizabeth with Ruby.  Photo by E. Spencer Toy

The way our Sunset researcher Elizabeth Jardina smacks down Slate's Jack Shafer bogus article on the fake chicken trend.  All I can say is, "You're in over your head, Jack.  Elizabeth knows chickens and she knows her shit." 

Not As bad As All That

I met my friends Jennifer and Karie for dinner last night and the first thing Jennifer said to me as we sat down was, "What are you talking about? You look great!" She also added an empathetic fuck you to the school that rejected Oliver, which was nice.

Apparently I had given the impression, via my last two posts, that I am a horrific sad sack popping pills and getting up only to make my gelatinous way to the fridge and back. Occasionally I might lift my graying visage to curse the heavens, only to quickly return to the eating and popping.

But let me clear a few things up. First, I am still so totally eye-burning hot it is almost difficult to look at me.  Yes, the jaw line isn't what it used to be, and the gut is rather more gut-like than I prefer. But, don't fret, I still look like the white, chubby, middle aged Beyonce. Plus, I just got my eyebrows done, so you know. Working it.

The similarities are crazy. 

Second, I did get two job rejections in two hours and my ego was just the weensiest bit bruised. But I still have some employment irons in the fire and I'm not going to miss my mortgage payments, and even though I've had to wean myself from expensive salon products and go full-on Wallgreens, KQED just sent me a free digital remote speaker thingy, so I'm good.

Plus, in case you are still worried about me (or worse, trying to distance yourself from my cursedness), here are some other good things.

1. I am going to Disneyland with my best friend and our families during spring break.
2. I got accepted to Lit Camp and I get to spend three whole days rollicking with other writers in April.
3. I just sent the first 85 pages of a book I'm working on to my agent.
4. Our third flock chickens started laying eggs and they are delicious.
5. I know a lot of really great people*, people I am just amazed and grateful to know on a daily basis.

There. Do you feel better now? I know I do.

*You are most likely one of these people. Seriously. Not a lot of other people know I've started up this blog again.

Come on, eggs!

Ahem, it's September 6th and our chickens are still no-good lay abouts intent on eating our table scraps and giving us nothing in return. They're like your belching brother-in-law who drinks all your beer and leaves a funny smell on your couch.

That's right, no eggs yet.

All the dates for the Guess the Date of the First Egg contest have come and gone. Wanna have another go? Leave your guess here. It's week 21, if you're the type to do research into these things, and we are dealing with two cuckoo morans and one barred rock.

Prizes still stand.

Ladies and gentlemen, good luck.

Potty Mouth

My kids are deep into the potty talk stage and although I've been assured that this is a completely normal part of being three, I grow weary. There is entirely too much poop in my life without having to listen to Maggie sing "My bottom came to school today, school today, school today. My vagina came to school today. Early in the morning," during bath time (complete with visual aids, thank you very much).

Between the dog, four chickens, and two mostly-potty-trained pre-schoolers it can sometimes feel as if I am always either wiping a butt or picking up a steaming pile of excrement. I suppose this is the life I signed on for, and seeing as I am fortunate enough to have indoor plumbing, a hefty supply of wipes, and a mop, I shouldn't complain. But, please, allow me to recount my day.

It started at five when Maggie woke up cocooned in a mass of urine-soaked blankets. Once that was cleaned up and she was once again ensconced in her requisite pink (we said we wouldn't, but we do), we stumbled downstairs for our Cheerios only to be greeted by our dog's diarrhea splattered across the living room floor like some Jackson Pollack masterpiece. Okaaay, we said, taking a deep breath, we've been through this before. The Mister changed into his Haz. Mat. suit (cut off sweatpants and an old stained t-shirt) and took the rug outside for a little pressure hosing.

I went to work.

Fast forward ten hours.

I arrive home with the kids (the Mister is swimming in the Bay) and upon opening the front door, am confronted with a physics problem I assure you I am incapable of figuring out. It goes like this: how can all that shit possibly have been inside that medium-sized dog?

So now we have no rug and no rug pad.

But our floors are VERY clean at the moment and I leave for Venice in 36 hours, so again, I can't complain.

Oh, and in case you are wondering, the next line is, "My penis came to school today, school today, school today." Everybody sing!

I'm an expert, but if you need help identifying who made these turds, go here.

I don’t mean to whine, but IKEA only serves Pepsi

I’ve been kind of down in the dumps lately (I know, just what people want to read about after a long day in the trenches, but bear with me).  It’s hard to explain why, but it has to do with some curdling mix of trying to write a novel, and reading Mountains Beyond Mountains and feeling as though doing anything that is not in the service of others is shallow and meaningless.  There are so many people out there who are fucked unto the Lord, as Anne Lamott would say, and here I am trying to write amusing sentences about a twelve-year-old girl.  And, like, who needs me when the world has Michael Chabon and Lorrie Moore and Richard Yates?  

Mixed in to this existential crisis is the fact that my kids have learned the word “hate,” and the little scraps of patience I was sometimes able to muster have mutinied and fled. Then there’s my inability to be skinny, and my irritation with myself for still believing, after all the evidence to the contrary, that skinniness equals happiness. 

Furthermore, it looks as though my trip to Italy may not materialize. I’ve decided I do not like writing workshops. Our chickens are constantly shitting in their water, considerably adding to my stress levels.  I have disconcerting joint pain.  My house feels small and cluttered and there is juice on the floor that has been there a week. I wore out my expensive shoes and now they look bad.  Oh, and I’m losing my job but I don’t know when.

Guess if eating alone in the IKEA cafeteria this afternoon helped my mood. 

 

A thing I like

First of all, I forgot to update you on the completely successful neighborhood potluck I had in my backyard after the weird run-in with my icky neighbor.  It was great, really.  All these people I didn’t know came and signed up and ate chips and drank beer and, I don’t know, it was a little glimmer of hope in my otherwise shitty week.  So, there’s that—the fact that a lot of people (or at least 10 people) want to make our neighborhood a better place.

Then there’s this, which starts tonight and is a big reason why summer is my favorite season.

See? It’s not all bad. 

Shook me all night long

Most nights these days my kids invent a hundred different ways to stall before bed. "I'm hungry." "I have to go to the bathroom." "I want the light on a little more." "I need to ask you a question." Etc, etc. until we end up having to just close the door in their little faces and wishing them goodnight.

Lately they've added a few fears to their expanding repertoire. Last week I had to go into the backyard and get rid of an imaginary rat for Maggie. Yesterday Oliver asked me to make sure there were no owls outside. Later, he called me back in to ask where the volcanoes were.

Then, tonight, Maggie called me into the room where she was sitting up in bed whimpering with fear. "Mom," she said, lips quivering. "I see a rock star outside. And I don't like rock stars."

For just a millisecond I got excited, thinking maybe, just maybe, this rather trying and exhausting day was going to end on a bright note and I would pull away the curtain and Angus Young would be standing in the backyard admiring our chickens in his little shorts and suspenders ensemble.

But no, it was only Venus, or the North Star or whatever, and I had to explain that it was just a regular star and not a rock star and there was nothing to be afraid of.

Oliver & Maggie doing a serious and avant garde "robot"

Chicken Update

We now have four big old chickens on top of our dryer. What were once adorable little balls of fuzz are now scowling fowl with scaly legs who poop actual turds that stink. It's like having teenagers.

Cleaning the cage has become a nasty job, sort of like dealing with those trucker poops that start appearing in the Pampers once your little darling starts in on the real food. It's time to get them out of garage and into their own coop. Today, after five days away, I heard my first actual cluck.

Now we just have to finish the chicken run. And let me tell you, the coop was cake compared to the run (basically a big wood-framed box with chicken wire walls that must be impervious to all urban vermin). It's a good thing I'm around though, because just between you and me, the Mister, great as he is, sucks at figuring out how to build a chicken run. Handy with a circular saw, though.

We're hoping they'll be out in their own house by Friday. And then it's just more scratching and perching and eating until they get big enough to start earning their keep with some eggs (stay tuned for a name-the-date-of-the-first-egg contest with cool prizes). Unless, of course, Tilly is a rooster, which we suspect she is. Then, I don't know. Anyone handy with an ax?

A thing I like

This story by Lisa Belkin in New York Times Magazine about the demise of helicopter parenting. Thwap, thwap, crash.

chicken pozole and huge egg giveaways

That's a decoy egg so they know what they are supposed to do in that box

This is the one year anniversary of this blog. My second entry, back when I was still a blogging newbie, was about the Sonoma Co. Fair and we are headed back this afternoon to ride more ponies and eat fried things off of sticks. The circle of life and all that.

As of yesterday at 5 o'clock I am officially unemployed. Although I am not all broken up about it, I do feel at loose ends. As I've said, I'm not exactly sure what's next for me. I'll be doing a lot of work shifts at my kids' co-op nursery school. I plan to get totally ripped. I'm going to write a draft of the novel I've been working on. I might chip away at my 39 Things list by building that headboard, and I'll definitely clean out the garage. But I'm sure I'll also spend way too much time shuffling around the house, organizing the junk drawer, getting sidetracked by old photo albums and picking at otherwise invisible facial blemishes until they turn into scabs. It should be pretty fun.

I will also be minding my remaining chickens, biding my time until they finally start laying eggs. Which brings me to our next topic: The Guess the Date of the First Egg Contest. Today they are 17 weeks old. According to most experts chicken begin to lay around 20 weeks. But it could be earlier. Pick the correct date and I will hand-deliver a dozen fresh eggs to you. If you don't live in San Francisco, I will send you an Eggling planter so you can grow fresh thyme. It's a score either way, so start your guessing. The comments are open.

Finally, Tilly was delicious. First I made him into broth then I made him into pozole. He fed 8 people and we still have some soup left over. Thanks, Tilly.

Tilly all naked and ready to go

Tilly all picked and ready to be soup

Tilly pozole

Lee Anne happily sniffing Tilly pozole. Yum.

Chicks Gone Wild

The Mister thinks I'm such a tough farmer chick because I can pick up chickens and scoop up handfuls of bugs without flinching. Get me near a spider and it's a whole 'nother, much squealier picture.  But I must admit, I like this image of myself as no-nonsense and unfussy (it helps balance out the fugue state shopping trips to Nordstrom Rack and the way in which I am helplessly drawn to Us Weekly).  

Here I am, being totally hardcore with the circle of life.

Our Lady of Dora the Explorer

This morning Maggie got dressed all by herself, the whole shebang, even the socks and shoes.  Oliver ran into the bathroom where I was getting out of the shower to tell me about it. “Maggie got dressed all by herself,” he said. “Isn’t that impressive?”

Um, that’s a three syllable word, people. I don’t mean to brag, but that’s impressive. Maybe it’s all those New Yorker articles we read to them before bed.

Or maybe it has something to do with the lack of TV.  They saw nary a screen flicker until they were almost three and now they watch only DVDs (including the never-ending Thomas the Tank Engine--Oh My GOD but that’s boring) and only now and then. As far as I know, they’ve never seen a commercial.

Before you think I’m some insufferable, holier-than-thou ass wipe, I just want to say that although I was mostly on board with the no-TV rule, The Mister and I had some real blow-ups over his Stalinesque adherence to our self-imposed hardship (the path to the people’s liberation is through interminable hours of PlayDough kitchen!). I mean, can’t a mother get a break once in a while?  What’s the harm in putting on 30 minutes of Dora while you grab a little shut-eye, or mix an old-fashioned?

Actually, I can answer that: the harm is in how easy it is.  I had heard about the whole TV-as-babysitter model, but until I tried it I had no idea.  I had NO idea. It’s like a miracle. The closest I’ve come to real silence in the last three years is when I put on a copy of Sesame Street’s Learning Letters. I sometimes watch as my little angles sit rapt and motionless in front of the TV and wonder why I made it so hard on myself for so long.  This whole time I could have been showering, or brushing my teeth, or even returning emails!

I can’t get that time back.  But maybe there is some consolation to be found in the fact that my kids love books and have great vocabularies and know how to catch chickens. 

Or maybe your kids grew up on a steady diet of The Bachelorette and I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant and could recite pi to its 23rd digit by age two.  Feel free to put me in my place if so.

You too can kill a chicken

Right after we got our chickens the Mister met another San Francisco couple interested in raising poultry and invited them over to see our little operation. We later sold them all our chick equipment and lo and behold, they became urban chicken farmers too, complete with small blond children and a chicken chronicling blog. I like to say we started something (even the Tipsy Baker learned from us!). The Mister likes to say they are on the ride.

Then today, he gets this email:

I hope you are well! Sorry it has been a while since we checked in. Our flock of four chicks have grown into a happy little family. They are almost three months old now. They live outside in their coop and we move them around the yard in a little play pen. Here is a link to a family blog I started (but have neglected for many weeks!): http://philosophersegg.blogspot.com.

I'm writing today because one of our birds, Timmy (E. must have been prescient in her naming of the bird), has started to crow. Turns out he is a very handsome rooster. We could take him back to Half Moon Bay Feed and Fuel and they will turn him into soup. We also thought of you both.

Any chance you are interested in harvesting another bird? It is going to be a bit hard for me, as I'm quite attached to Timmy (he is really quite handsome), but I would rather he ends up in the soup pot of friends, than strangers.

If one chicken killin' experience was enough for you and you'd rather pass, I understand!

Hope you are your family are well! perhaps we can get together and swap chicken stories after the holidays.

Followers of this blog know we've entered this territory before. And while I cannot tell you how happy I am to be the go-to family for backyard chicken slaughtering, and as much as chicken and dumplings would really hit the spot right now, we're just not sure we can do this one.

Our problem is our lack of slaughter buddies (the Mister's friends are not available for throat slitting and feather pulling on such short notice and I need to be out of the house with the twins so they don't witness our gruesome bloodletting). So, wanna help? Like tomorrow? Watch THIS to see if you're man enough and then let me know. The dignity of Timmy's death lies in your hands.

P.S. The Mister wants me to add that he's no expert and that you may absolutely NOT make fun of him if he squeals like a little girl.

Eggs! Eggs! Eggs!

Mm mm mm

It worked. Nature, I mean. On September 8 we finally got not one, but two little brown beauties from our chickens. The whole family went a little nutso with excitement. We even attracted the neighbor girl with our egg-citement (sorry about that).

So, Ms. Samantha B. is our contest winner with a guess of September 5. Congratulations! Email me and we can figure out if you get the dozen eggs or the Eggling herb planter.

Woo hoo! Omelets for all.

Maggie checks compulsively (like we all do)

Finally, our labor pays off

That's our first prize egg next to a jumbo supermarket egg. Ours is cuter, don't you think?

Watching eggs fry is not at all like watching paint dry