As soon as the weather allows, we will have to have people over for chicken dinners. We hope to start on Wednesday with Aunt Harriette. The thermometer topped out at 62° yesterday. Too early for a fire, but fine weather for making quiche (we are also swimming in eggs). Despite the (continued) rain this morning, we made good on our promise to reduce the stress in the new bird coop.

It took us 6 hours to process 9 birds.

Tyson Foods we ain't. Which, I suppose, is entirely the point. When I was 21 I sat for hours with my grandfather, boning chicken to feed the 200 guests who would celebrate my syster's wedding. I could not eat or be around any chicken for years afterward. The (normal) chickens we raise smell so sweet, whether alive or awaiting to be plucked. The broilers were not as pleasant either to butcher, or to raise, even if the are the most efficient animals at converting feed to protein on the face of the earth. Someday we may figure out how to market our overage so we can continue to support this 40 acre garden. It is not practical. It is not efficient. It is heaven.

The volunteer Blue Hubbard is taking over the winter chicken yard.