Who Are You Calling Chicken?

Adorable photo courtesy of the We Like It Wild post on Design*Sponge.

Sometimes The Universe tells me things. This week, it is telling me to keep chickens. Lest you believe I have meandered into a mental state similar to that of many Haight-Ashbury "residents," I will explain.

First, it was last week’s charming post by the ‘We Like It Wild/Studio Choo’ girls on Design*Sponge with a creative Easter decoration idea that I unabashedly cribbed for my table settings. They were inspired to create these tiny little arrangements after a visit with a woman who keeps chickens in nearby Marin County. Thus, it begins.

Photo from the Design*Sponge post

Second, it was strolling through the Ferry Building Farmer’s Market with Wilbat looking for brown eggs to replicate the goodness above and being bowled over by the price of a half dozen organic eggs. They were $4 for 6 little old eggs and I thought Will was going to flip out (and this was when he thought I was buying them for consumption – imagine when I told him my real plans!).

Third, it was checking out the Blogger feed this morning and seeing that Ashley English of ‘Small Measures’ has a book coming out on keeping chickens. Do I need it? No. Not only do I not have an outdoor space in which to keep a hen, I’m pretty sure it would be a serious violation of numerous zoning laws. Do I want it? Hell, yes. I would not mind getting her guide to home canning, either.

Photo from Ashley's post on her new books - check it out here!

Clearly, The Universe’s message to me is quite obvious. Though, I know what you’re thinking: "Oh, Nicole. Dear silly Nicole with your odd plans … You believe you want a chicken to lay you fresh eggs every morning and name Bess or Ruth or something classically 1950’s sounding, but be reasonable. You’d most certainly find yourself in over your head with the care and maintenance of a clucky hen." And perhaps you’d be correct. But perhaps you would be surprised to know that I have some chicken-raising experience, or at least more than your average bear. What might not surprise you would be to hear that when I owned the aforementioned chickens, I owned ten. Really, though, when a little girl visits the Fisco in Chico and stands before a giant aluminum basin loaded with adorable yellow chicks peeping away and scrambling around and over each other for the prime heat lamp spot, can she be expected to take less than ten? As can be expected, ten chicks were darling, ten teenage chickens were a bit precocious, and ten grown chickens (particularly those that turned out to be roosters) were a bit much. Luckily, my Dad found them new homes on a local chicken farm.

The moral of this little peep (pun intended) into my childhood is to reveal that I both have chicken-related experience and have learned my lesson about reasonable quantities. Regardless of that important lesson, I believe I will find myself Rhode Island Red-less, Hippy-Chicken-less, and otherwise hen-less for quite some time. Thus, I will leave you with some lyrics from my apparent anthem, Feist’s "Mushaboom."

Unpacking the bags and setting up
And planting lilacs and buttercups oh
But in the meantime we've got it hard
Second floor living without a yard
It may be years until the day
My dreams will match up with my pay…

It's time to break out in Singer.

I am in full-blown domestic mode. It happens sometimes and quickly passes with little action on my part. But this time I mean business. Will is slightly less than thrilled that I ordered a pressure canner from Amazon on Friday. He muttered something about "botulism" and shook his head. So there's a start on that front.

Next up, sewing! Now this is something I sort of used to know how to do. I have no idea now. And the great news is, my mom had hopes that I might actually follow in her and my grandma's footsteps of knowing how to do useful things, and purchased and refurbished a lovely Singer sewing machine for me. Granted, that was probably eight years ago. However, I am ready to pull it out of the Harry Potter cupboard under the stairs, blow the dust off, and make something of and for myself.

The inspiration? The lovely sheeny gold jumpsuit below. Ashley Simpson rarely inspires anything in me but a bit of indigestion; however, no one can argue with a sweet looking seventies-style jumpsuit. It will be mine, oh yes, it will be mine. The main problem with having a fetish for designer duds and simultaneously working in non-profit is quite obvious. When trends come up that aren't worth robbing a bit from my savings account (like a classic trench coat I'd wear forever, etc.), I usually go the $20 route at Forever 21. The result: an ill-fitting, ill-made thing that looks cheap because it is and, in this short jumpsuit's case, might make me look like a bit of a harlot. These items inevitably end up in the Goodwill bag with a "what was I thinking??" look of disgust.

Thus, it is time to learn how to sew. Then I could take that $20, head to Britex, find the perfect fabric and make it fit perfectly! Cheers to a desperate attempt not to run out of steam on this one.

Cultivating my gilded thumb

I was sadder than sad when my beloved Domino magazine went under several months ago. We only had 5 issues together! A loving relationship tragically cut short. Their website was especially good, too, particularly for neat little features like creating your own terrarium. When I first hear "terrarium," I only think of holding a toad by the name of Norman captive in one for several weeks until it became blaringly apparent that he would have none of the crickets and other bugs I continually foisted upon him (don't fret, he was eventually released back into "wild," also known as the camellia bush).

On the other hand, Domino's versions are a great deal more attractive. I just love how elegant and charming these little plants look in bell jars! Now "terrarium" conjures up images of Victorian hothouses, bustles, and little finches in gilded cages. Further evidence I was born in the wrong era (i.e. century!).

I'm dying to make a few to put on my mantle, and I think they would make great gifts, as well. Keep a sharp eye out for me if you're ever wandering a flea-market, etc. for bell jars! Unfortunately, the directions went away with the website, so I'll really be winging it.