Admitting My Dark Side (or the Light Side as it were)

Most of my time the last few weeks has revolved around caring for the foster flockers that are still growing like crazy. The birds are now at the stage where it seems that they make a mess every few minutes, the feeder is constantly in need of filling and their waterer consistently looks like a wood chip cesspool. I'm very fortunate that the other residents here; dogs, cats, and adult cluckers are very forgiving that their Clucker Mother has been giving these temporary residents more attention than them as of late. I think they know that their mama is about at her wits end and ready for warmer weather so that these soon-to-be-rehomed-to-the-country cheepers can be given time outdoors and give everyone inside a break.

This spring has also been incredibly cold and it's amazing that the furnace is still running to keep everyone inside toasty warm. I was ready to remove the red heat lamp from the Taj MaCoop outside a couple of weeks ago when we had a few days of 70 degree plus weather, but so glad (and I'm sure the ladies are too) that I left it in place for now. We're all getting a little bit of cabin fever and just trying to maintain sanity until the days return to the warmth that will allow all of us to stay outside all day long. Having to spend most of my time indoors, I kind of feel like I could go all Jack Torrence, Jack Nicholson's character in The Shining, when he breaks through the door and says "Heeeeere's Johnny!"

While I don't see myself welding an axe any time soon and busting through doors, I do have a confession to make that has peaked over the past few days. Yes, this Clucker Mother does have a dark side. It's been going on for years and I feel compelled to finally admit it and just accept it for what it is. Are you prepared to hear it? Okay, here it goes: I. Eat. Chicken.

You read that correctly, I eat chicken. Yes, I raise them, name them, hug them, feed them treats, shelter them; but those birds who are raised elsewhere and happen to make it into the broiler or fryer-- I eat them. Shhh, don't tell the Cluckers! This was never more apparent to me than this past week when my hometown welcomed the Grand Opening of a Chick-fil-A restaurant.


My hometown is small, only about 35,000 residents, and when a large chain like C-f-A opens-- customers come out in DROVES to wait in line no matter how long it takes. I wasn't going to be a follower, I wasn't, but gosh-- when I drove past the restaurant on the night of the day that they opened and saw that the line was less than 100 feet long, I caved. Now before some of you start judging me for supporting an establishment that hasn't exactly been popular with the less conservative crowd, all I can say is that their chicken is glorious! I don't know what they do to it, but it is real chicken and those waffle fries and the Chick-fil-A Sauce?! What the cluck?!?!

I admit it, I participated in the first evening of opening day for the restaurant and happily turned the inside of my purple FIT into dining area extraordinaire. I did it, I ate the chicken and enjoyed every minute of it. Finishing this first meal, I made sure to hide all evidence when I got home so that the Lady Cluckers had no idea that I had eaten some of their kin (though knowing what I know now about chickens, they would have eaten them as well). I swore I wouldn't go back to C-f-A for a while and tried to justify my need for breaded poultry as a momentary weakness. That was, until the next day came and I drove past again around the dinner hour.

I'm a Clucker Mother for goodness sake and I not only ate dinner at the restaurant again that evening, but also for lunch the next day as well!! Double what the cluck?!?! Three meals in a row at the same chicken restaurant!!! I have a true dark side I guess (though I prefer the white side better) and I admit it.

I don't see myself ever turning on my resident cluckers, but I can't say that I won't return to the house of glorious chicken any time soon and I still have frozen chicken tenders in my freezer and a few containers of shredded chicken in a can stored in my kitchen pantry. What can I say, I'm a hypocrite. I thought my raising chickens would cause me to become a tree hugging vegan, but all that's happened is that I still hug trees, but eat those chickens who don't have names and that I don't know personally. I feel like a barbarian, but don't ask me to stop enjoying the fried goodness any time soon. I know it won't be long before I enter the line again -- I admit it.

Just don't tell the Cluckers!