The chicken and the egg

I was driving around Kent a few days ago and noticed chickens scurrying around behind a house. Chickens have become a popular item on city council agendas lately. Seattle passed an ordinance allowing residents to raise chickens and the Tukwila  City Council on Monday was working on a similar ordinance.

A number of cities around the Puget Sound are allowing folks to raise chickens in urban settings. It must be another sign of the economic times.

Eggs may be the perfect food. I’ve heard in French cooking schools the first weeks are spent learning how to properly cook eggs. Omelets are very tricky. I’ve watched the Julia Child omelet episode a million times and I still don’t quite have all the cool flips down.

My notion of raising chickens is probably different from some, at least those folks raised in what my folks used to call “in town”.

I was raised until about the sixth grade on a dairy farm on top of a hill in Enumclaw. One of my early jobs was taking care of our chickens, or what I came to call them – stupid, life-threatening, feathered killers.

When I was young I felt my brothers had all the cool jobs around the farm, driving tractor, milking the cows and throwing hay bales around. Since I was more than 10 years younger I was feeling cheated out of the chic jobs that would advance me in life and get me a girl.

Obviously, the twists in my personality started early.

To make me feel better my dad gave me the chicken coop duty, which meant collecting eggs each day.

At first I thought it was a major breakthrough and I intended to become the best chicken caretaker on our farm, showing up my dopey brothers.

Initially, things worked out just as I planned. I was sure my chickens loved me most. What I didn’t know was a demon was lurking in the shadows.

I remember coming home from school, grabbing my bucket and heading out to the coop.

I collected the egg without letting the hens peck me to shreds. I thought I was well ahead of these birds with quick hands and more brains.

I was sauntering across the pen daydreaming as usual when something suddenly hit me and knocked me to the ground.

I looked back and there was this gigantic rooster, wings spread and I was sure he was frothing at the beak. I couldn’t believe it. I thought my chickens loved me.

In a fit of bravery, I jumped up and ran as fast as I could, slamming the gate closed before the killer rooster could get me. Thank God he didn’t have hands.

This little charade went on for about a week. I would try to collect eggs and the rooster would chase me around the pen like it was the best days of his crummy life.

My grandma finally figured out the egg production had dropped to zero. I had to tell her I was beaten by a rooster.

My grandma said she would go out to the chicken pen with me to guard me from the rooster.

Wonderful... protected by my grandma.

You can imagine how well this flew with my brothers.

I have an image I will never forget. Looking back after running full speed from the charging red demon at  my grandma repeatedly whacking the rooster with her house broom.

Grandma saved me, and the best part was after helping me she gave me a big piece of wild blackberry pie and vanilla ice cream.

I was scarred for life, but that pie was sure good.