As you can see from the photographic evidence above, we have managed to keep all four of our chickens alive for almost a month now. Which is a lot harder than it sounds.
Chickens aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer (which makes them so entertaining to watch.) Our ladies refuse to go back into the coop once we let them out in the morning until the sun sets at night. Even then, you can hear them complain bitterly in the dark as they head up the ramp indoors.
Normally, staying outside all day in their run wouldn’t be a problem, but we keep their food and water inside. So every time someone goes in the backyard, the ladies run over chirping, “What did you bring us to eat?” And if that person didn’t bring them anything to eat, the chickens sulk and pout most dreadfully.
Because pouting chickens break my heart, I usually feed them something: cantaloupe rinds, bolted lettuce, pea vines, etc. Occasionally I’ll mix a batch of their chicken feed with some leftover whey from making yogurt and I’ll set it in front of them and watch the pandemonium. The largest lady, Hardboiled, will stand in the middle of the bowl trying to shield it from the other chickens with her plumpness. Obviously, the other girls don’t stand for that and there is much chicken drama. If Bravo ever wants to produce a show called The Real Chickens of Indianapolis, I’ve got just the birds for them.
In other farm news, yesterday was a banner day. We ate three ripe apricots from our tree in the backyard. They were the first fruit we have gotten from that tree and they tasted absolutely delicious. Just like liquid sunshine. They were so delicious, in fact, that I pondered traveling the countryside, planting apricots trees along the way. But Ami Apricot-Pit just doesn’t have the same ring as Johnny Appleseed. So I’ve decided not to.
The Swiss chard I haphazardly planted (next year I’ll do better, I promise) is actually coming up in a few spots. With all it’s different colors, Swiss chard looks like the happiest vegetable of all time. And very hippy-esque. There’s probably some psychedelic ’70’s mischief going on in the garden beds at night, but these guys are so tasty, I can’t complain.
I made a Swiss chard frittata the other night for dinner and not a single child at the table complained. The six year old even asked for seconds, which is possibly a sign of an coming Apocalypse, you have been warned.
Because there was room, I planted a few sweet potato slips in the spaces where the Swiss chard did not come up. The little plants look like they’re holding their own, so I have high hopes for October and homegrown sweet potatoes.
Oh sweet potatoes, I hated you so when I was young. But my more mature taste buds really love you now. Especially baked. Or fried. Or covered with blue cheese.
Well, Gentle Reader, what’s happening in your gardens?