Parade of Chicken Homes

Terry is yearning to build a chicken coop and keep a few hens. I'm intrigued by the idea, too, but stymied by the problem of finding chicken-sitters when we leave town for a few days. It's a lot to ask of neighbors when it's fifteen degrees below zero or raining nonstop.

That might not be an issue if we lived in the Tenney-Lapham neighborhood, which held the Tour des (Chicken) Coops yesterday--a self-guided walking tour of family chicken-keeping operations in the heart of the city. Dozens of people, including us, took them up on the invitation on a hot, sunny June afternoon.

The gently eccentric mentality of Madison's near east side translated into glimpses past perimeters of deeply shaded sidewalks and shared driveways into hidden, miniature, complicated backyards, with murals painted on sheds, walkways dotted with blooms, creative landscaping with scavenged materials, and--of course--chicken coops tucked away in a corner, or featured as the focal point of the whole space.

We were delighted to find one man's tiny yard contained not only a spacious chicken coop, but an espaliered apple tree (bought from Shopko 15 years ago), and a beehive--with plenty of greenery and space shielding it all from view as well as containing paths of hay leading to other, undiscovered features and an iron bed installed for climbing plants.

Is this what it means to eat locally?

I've had strawberry shortcake for breakfast or dinner every day this week.

I made too much last Sunday because I didn't know who was and wasn't coming over: might be no one, could be six or seven more people. I picked two quarts of strawberries, marinating each in its own experiment of sugar quantity, sent Terry for extra whipping cream which I whipped with confectioner's sugar (because it tastes good and keeps the cream from becoming watery if it has to sit for a few days), and baked two whole wheat shortbreads.

Alas, one batch would have been enough. But I couldn't bear to throw out all that goodness. I love my own strawberry shortcake--I think it may be one of my top ten favorite things to eat--and I really did wait all year for it, especially with garden-grown berries.

So I decided to forget about the usual inescapable realities like calories, fat, sodium, protein, and fiber, and eat exactly what I wanted, not even skimping on the whipped cream. It was the high point of each day, but by last night (Thursday) I was glad to finish it and not have it again for a while.

The really weird thing is, I lost one pound. And I am not overweight, just your average physically active, menopausal baby boomer. I always wish a couple of pounds of squishiness would disappear from my middle, but it's not a high priority.

I think I know what both Barbara Kingsolver and Geneen Roth would say.

Primal Picking

I once read that women tend to be more sensitive to variations of color than men are. It was theorized it's an evolutionary thing because over the past few thousand years women honed their skill at selecting the ripest, sweetest berries.

Hunter/gatherer theories about men and women resonate with me, and this one sprang to mind because I'm so blissfully happy when picking strawberries from my own patch. It's like searching for little brilliant red jewels hidden among the green leaves.

But I'm pretty sure the bliss factor crept up to consciousness level because of what's missing: I'm not swatting away at mosquitoes--in our yard the hatch is minimal. At least for now.