Kate E. Richards - Drinking with Chickens

H istorically, drinking with chickens is one of the most enigmatic subcultural practices that has diffused its way across many cultures, over the course of many millennia. Since the dawn of Mesopotamian agriculture and the domestication of farm animals (coincidentally, around the same time we see the advent of beer production), drinking and chickens have gone hand in hand; legend has it that the Sumerian goddess of beer, Ninkasi, assumed the form of a chicken to pass safely through the Seven Gates of the Underworld. During the late Ptolemaic period, the ancient Egyptians devised an incredibly sophisticated method of artificially incubating chicken eggs. Vast networks of clay ovens were tended day and night by egg keepers who endured the long hours of isolation by drinking fortified wine. In medieval France, couples celebrated their betrothal by sharing a glass of wine and a piece of fruit in the presence of a rooster and a hen to symbolize their forthcoming wedding.

HAHAHAHAHA. Lies. All lies. Drinking with chickens is just a completely ridiculous thing I do in my backyard.

Is it a hobby? NAY. It is a lifestyle, my friends. Allow me to explain.

After many months of appropriate immersion therapy (double-tapping bucolic Instagram accounts, flipping through magazines, and pinning tirelessly to your Pinterest board, creatively entitled CHICKENS!!!), you may think: Im going to get chickens! Usually, this decision is based squarely upon the noble idea that youll be able to harvest your breakfast from these sassy, winged beasts. Fresh eggs. Every. Damned. Morning. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, let me walk you through a typical day for me:

The very millisecond the Eastern night sky shows even the tiniest twinge of morning light (lets call it dawn), the muttering starts. Whether its five a.m., six a.m., or even seven a.m., depending on the season and the tilt of Earth and science and all that, the chickens wake with the very first signs of daybreak. They arent heavy sleepers. The early morning muttering soon gives way to outright hollering as they demand to be freed from their coop to be fed. It is at about this time, each and every morning, that I put my pillow over my head and pretend that I dont have chickens.

Three minutes of denial pass by and it becomes impossible to ignore my chickens screaming at the top of their lungs. S. C. R. E. A. M. I. N. G. Probably hard for my neighbors to ignore as well, so I stumble blindly through the yard in my pajamas to release the caged banshees from their prison of emotions. I dutifully distribute the highest-quality organic feed into their Pinterest-worthy custom raised dishes. They briefly inspect, and then promptly turn their little ingrate, feathered backs on me to dig in the dirt for worms. Ive just been given the chicken middle finger. Im used to it, though.

Wearily, I trudge back inside the house to drink coffee and stare blankly at my computer screen in an attempt to start my day. Its so lovely to be up and at it so bright and early! Said not me ever. I work like this for a precious half hour of peace. It probably isnt even seven a.m., and we move on to Phase 2 of the morning.

My train of thought is brutally derailed by sudden and emphatic squabbling in the chicken yard. They are arguing over who gets to use the nesting box first. Despite the fact that there are several perfectly viable nesting boxes, they bicker over one just to be able to bicker over something. I try to focus on my breathing and determinedly get back to work. The squabbling waxes and wanes. I monitor the volume while adding bourbon to my coffee.

Around 7:30 a.m., the arguing swells into a migraine-inducing cacophony painfully unfit for early morning suburbia and I hurry back out to the hen yard to referee. One hen has laid her egg and is screaming about it, while three more stand in line waiting for her nesting box and scream back at her. I remove the first hen; no need to brag, keep it moving, Veruca Salt. There is a desperate scrabble for the empty box and Princess Vespa is the swiftest, settling her fluffy butt into place as Beatrix Potter and Frau Farbissina grumble poultry profanities at her. I lift Beatrix into a different nesting box, and Frau into a third. Cant we be reasonable, ladies? No. No we cannot. They hop directly out, squawking indignantly at me as they go to huff and puff at Vespa while she tries to concentrate on her egg.

Fifteen minutes and countless expletives later, I decide that refereeing was an absolute exercise in futility. I return to my desk to furiously hate-type at the computer and gulp bourbon coffee. The rest of the morning is spent rinsing and repeating.

Around noon, I realize that the backyard has returned to a more pastoral state. The girls have all cycled through their turns at dropping an egg (then boasting about it incessantly at the top of their lungs), and I am lured back out by the peace to watch them happily chickening about in their yard. Theyre so cute that Ive already forgotten the morning trials. Its a little thing I like to call Chicken Stockholm Syndrome.

Its now about that time of the day for me to get some work done in the main garden. Lulled into a false sense of security by their happy little hen antics, I decide to turn the chickens loose for some free ranging time as I work. After all, theyre pretty efficient weeders. And debuggers. And diggers. And dear-Gawd-what-was-I-thinking-theyve-destroyed-everything.