At our local living history museum, Ft. Nisqually, we have
fine ladies who preen and display some of the nicest dresses that needles ever
wrought. We have gents strutting in
beaver felt top hats. We have hordes of
adolescents peeping for the fiddler to rosin up her bow. We’ve got mountain men with tomahawks stuck in
their belts. We’ve got a great garden,
and we’ve got chickens.
Seems like most backyards have them too. Children visitors used to be amazed at
cuddling baby chicks and hearing them peep.
Now they question us as to what chicken feed we might use and offer
opinions as to what breed they are. I don’t keep backyard chickens. Know very little about what to feed them. I've been told they are speckled Sussex, a heritage breed.
I do know my way around a kitchen though, and was a bit
surprised awhile back when I was hustling my cooking gear and dutch oven into
the period kitchen. The chickens aren’t
allowed in there and yet one of the hens hiding in the corner. Most mountain men out here would crow about finding
the chicken already handy in the kitchen.
At least, that was what they would tease. Our chickens are for show only.
“C’mon, sweetie, out you go,” I urged.
The chicken cowered in the corner.
I swished my long skirts and attempted to herd it out to the
door.
It started getting huffy and settled in.
I tried to pick it up and got pecked.
“C’mon now, you can’t stay here” My hand was pink and there
was already a sharp bruise. I refused to
be frightened by a chicken.
The chicken started offering opinions as to which MY heritage. What breed of chicken was I?
I was not going to be outdone by a chicken.
“C’mon, you sassy bird,” I ordered. “Get the cluck out!” I gently scooped it forward with my
foot.
The chicken stood up, plopped out an egg, and ran off
screaming indignities.
Every bird in the coop must have heard about the wretched
treatment I meted out. It may be my
imagination, but they all give me the cold shoulder. And the rooster? Well, he won’t even give me the time of day.
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