Tag Archives: chicken

2691. Overheard barnyard conversation

You know, Mildred, here in the barnyard I’m so glad we decided to protest the war in Ukraine by laying fewer eggs.

I agree, Sybil. There’s nothing chicken about us. It doesn’t hurt to teach these humans a jolly good lesson by knocking the price of eggs through the roof at the supermarket.

The only disadvantage I see with our protest is that the unavailability of eggs has so rocketed I could afford to hatch out only seven chickens this year. I usually hatch out twelve.

The other thing is Sybil, despite the rooster strutting around like he owns the place, the Western world’s sperm count has plummeted. I’m not sure the rooster could manage twelve.

It was only the other day that I overheard the farmer’s daughter complain about the high cost these days of producing an omelette. I never knew humans laid omelettes. And why they need our eggs to lay one I have no idea. You’d think they’d be more hard-boiled than that.

The more omelettes we stop being made the sooner this war in Ukraine will be over.

Have you heard of Bridie’s protest? I couldn’t agree more. She’s running a petition to change the term egg white to egg gunk. I like it; gunk rhymes with funk and punk. Egg white is so racist. Gunk is so New Orleans.

That’s not all Sybil. I lay only white eggs and I have to soak my eggs in tea to make them look brown before they sell. It doesn’t help the price.

All in all, Mildred, it’s not that much fun these days being a chicken. Here comes the rooster now.

Go away you horrible creature, we’re protesting.

2215. Wonderful chicken

(The final day, Day 7 of a week of retelling traditional folktales.)

A woman gave birth to a chicken. One day the chicken spread a cloth on the ground and it turned into a palace and the chicken changed into a beautiful princess.

A prince fell in love with the princess, and when that happened the palace changed back into a cloth and the princess back into a chicken.

The prince took the chicken and made a nest for it next to his bed. When the chicken once again changed into a princess, the prince gathered the feathers and threw them into the fire. The spell was broken.

And they all lived happily ever after.

1843. Hearty food

Dean’s doctor told him to start eating healthy. He searched online for healthy foods. There were links to different foods that said “Eat these for a healthy heart”. Dean clicked on them, link after link. It took a good half an hour to download all the pages each with a different healthy food.

The following, in this order, were good for the heart:

Oranges, kale, garlic, red wine, chocolate, sardines, lentils, almonds, pomegranates, blueberries, beets, salmon, turmeric, chia seeds, apples, avocados, eggplant, broccoli, carrots, chicken, chickpeas, coffee, cranberries, figs, flax seeds, red hot chilli peppers, ginger, grapefruit, green tea, kidney beans, kiwi fruit, mackerel, cashew nuts, oatmeal, pears…

Dean tried them all, one after the other, and it made no difference. He was still hungry. Health food doesn’t fill you up.

He finished off with a big slice of cream sponge cake and at last was satisfied.

1186. Boiled chicken

Thank you for posting the fabulous boiled chicken recipe. It was so simple to do; just chicken boiled in water. My family are vegans, so I left out the chicken. All agreed it was the loveliest meal I’d cooked in years. It’s certainly a recipe I shall be repeating and one I can’t wait to share with guests.

309. Breeding chickens


Neil was now all of thirteen years. He’d been interested in poultry ever since, aged four, he’d stayed at his Aunt Philomena’s. A hen had hatched chickens. He came home and began his own flock.

There were all sorts of different breeds of chicken. Some roosters , they said, were gentle characters. Others were brusque. Others noisy. Others protective of their hens, and savage.

He’d been taught genetics at school. There were recessive genes, and dominant genes. Neil thought he would put the information to some use. He began to selectively breed. He bred for beauty and size. They had to be striking colours. They had to be big. Colours for looks; size for the table.

Quickly, over a few generations, Neil bred them bigger. And bigger. The cockerels grew violent. Have you seen their spurs? They could maim. They could injure. Some said they could kill a fully-grown man.

They certainly killed a thirteen year old boy.

51. A Fertile Mind


Keith kept chickens. He was nine years old. The roosters kept jumping on top of the hens and hurting them. Keith was very busy chasing them off.

“Why do we need roosters anyway?” Keith asked his father. “They don’t lay any eggs.”

So Keith’s father explained why roosters were required. He used words such as fertilise and inject.

The next day at school, each member of the class had to research a topic on the internet. Keith’s topic was Salmon. The article said that the salmon went upstream, and the males fertilised the females’ eggs.

Now Keith knew what the word fertilise meant because he kept chickens and his father had told him. As far as he knew, no one else in the class kept chickens. Keith proudly went up to the teacher’s desk and, in a voice loud enough to be heard by all, said: “Excuse me, sir, but what does the word fertilise mean?”

The room went deathly quiet. The teacher leaned back on his chair and said, “Um”. (Silly teacher! He probably didn’t keep chickens either).

“I know!” Keith cried. ”My father told me! Fertilise means to inject!”

Never had such a hubbub occured in a class as on that day. The dumb spoke and the tone deaf sang! And in the playground they whispered, pointing to Keith: “That’s the one! That’s the boy who used the word fertilise in class!”

37. Dreams are Work


Jane Frances de Chantal was a chicken. She laid an egg a day. But mostly, she liked to cavort around the yard. She particularly liked to scratch in the dirt with the rooster — both literally and figuratively. Her breed was Faverolle, which is French and very stylish.

Suddenly, Mopsy appeared around the corner of the barn, followed by six newly-hatched chicks. Mopsy was a very plain white chicken, with bits of black and brown. A cross-breed apparently. Yuk! There was nothing stylish about her.

“Great scott! Oh mon Dieu!” gasped Jane Frances de Chantal. “Look at that! Mopsy’s got six chicks! How on earth did she do that? I want some of those! How do you make babies, Mopsy?”

“You should know,” said Mopsy, casting one eye towards the rooster.

“I don’t have a clue,” confessed Jane Frances de Chantal.

“It’s simple,” said Mopsy. “You lay some eggs. Then you sit on them for three weeks. After that, babies will hatch.”

“Three weeks! Oh la vache!” exclaimed Jane Frances de Chantal. “Three weeks! I would be bored stiff! I want to scratch around in the dirt with the rooster! I want to roost in the magnolia tree with him at night! I want to dine with him in a candlelight supper! I was put on this planet for fun! Fun! Fun — you ugly little cross-bred crap of a chicken! I’m not sitting on boring eggs for a tedious three weeks!”

“Then you can’t have chicks,” said Mopsy.