A Chicken dream; a chicken’s nightmare

echicken.jpgLast night we BBQed it up at a friends’ house in Mill Valley (a town whose name still brings BJ Honeycut from M*A*S*H to mind for reasons that escape me). Ernie was pretty excited to go–party? check; kids will be there? check; drive across the Golden Gate Bridge? check. Any one of those things is a pretty big draw to the lad, so the hat-trick was as much as he could handle. Until, that is, until he saw the chickens.

Our friends keep six chickens in their yard and the first hour of the party was spent by them being chased, caught, held, and petted by a gang of kids. At first everyone seemed happy. Then we asked the kids to at least not pick up the chickens any more. Then the chickens were returned to their coop. The kids, eyes gleaming, turned to the cat. At least that fight was fair (one kid got a big scratch to show him just how fair), and the cat eventually just sequestered herself under the house.

Along with burgers and sausages and lamb chops (oh my!), as well as my award-winning potato salad (well, it should win awards) and recipe-demand-inducing spicy sautéed corn, we enjoyed some egg salad crostini from the host, made from eggs from the very birds our children were torturing with love and attention. Man, eggs that fresh are awesome.

So my interest in getting chickens was re-ignited, and it has now met and combined with Ernie’s new absolute adoration of the creatures. I’m don’t know how much longer my dashing husband’s entirely reasonable stance of “absolutely not” can hold back the masses.

Anyone out there have chickens? Thoughts? Advice?