I don’t want you to think living here in the country is all about frolicking in the wildflower fields, looking winsome and thin while petting the animals who obey and adore us.
Without being too graphic, I want to let you know that country living occasionally has its hardships.
Okay, one example. Finding a king snake eating a mouse under your stove is a good way to ruin a perfectly good Sunday morning.
One more example, just for fun: Giving $750 on Monday morning to a 5′3 tall man with a handlebar mustache and alligator skin cowboy boots to crawl all around and under your house with insulation foam and hardware wire.
Okay, that’s the ugly part of living in the country. When you’re surrounded by woods and acres of hay fields, you have to expect, to some extent, that critters happen. You just don’t want them to happen so closely, if you know what I mean.
On the other hand, my chickens continue to delight and amaze me. The baby chicks are no longer babies. I can’t introduce them up-close-and-personal with the trio of big girls yet, but we do put their playpen outside next to the big girls’ run and have had a few meet-and-greet sessions.
And during their free-range time before sunset, the big girls have learned that they can walk onto the porch and deck and look through our French doors to see what we’re doing inside.
Minnie Ruth and Olive are still rather, uh, homely. I expect they will grow into their lovely chicken-ness. Because, you know, chickens really are quite beautiful, funny and entertaining.
This weekend we should complete construction on the Palazzo di Pollo, the new chicken house with its own porch and loft.
Until next time, here’s wishing you a critter-free weekend. Unless they are critters you like, that is.
Recently on Examiner:
Womanswork Gloves
William Robinson: The Original Wild Gardener
Start a Holding Bed for Plants
Robin
The nip of fall in the air always makes me want to bake. One reason is that the garden chores don’t feel nearly so urgent as in the spring and summer. It’s also easier to turn the oven on when the house isn’t above 80 degrees. But also, there is something about filling the house with the scent of baking bread, savory fruit muffins and chocolate that make me want to nestle in for the winter.
I’ve been droning on about chickens so much that I’ve been asked to join chicken blog directories. Who knew there were such things? Now, just to mix things up, I’ll throw in a recipe.
These are my favorite Very Simple Wild Blueberry Muffins. They take five minutes to toss together and less than 30 minutes to bake. So in about 35 minutes you can be sitting down with a glass of milk and a fresh blueberry muffin.
You could use fresh blueberries or frozen. If you use frozen, I recommend the Wyman’s brand of frozen wild blueberries. Wild blueberries are smaller than regular blueberries and the Wyman’s brand are the smallest I’ve seen.
Ingredients
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 cup packed light brown sugar, plus extra for topping
1/2 cup milk (I use skim since that’s all we keep in the house)
1 large egg (I use eggs from my own chickens, of course!)
1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups blueberries
Directions
Heat oven to 350 degrees and prepare muffin tins with paper liner or non-stick spray.
Mix butter, sugar, milk and egg until well blended. Add baking powder, cinnamon and salt, again mixing well. Gently fold in flour and mix, just until combined. Very gently fold in blueberries.
Divide batter into muffin cups. I usually make about nine from this recipe, but you can get 12 out of it, if you want smaller muffins.
Top each muffin with about 1/4 teaspoon of additional brown sugar.
Bake 25 minutes or until knife inserted comes out clean.
Enjoy!
New on Examiner
Start a waiting room for plants
Robin
Harry was hard at work today with his post-hold diggers. Pretty soon I’ll be able to share the results of all his work—the chicken run of the Palazzo di Pollo. Yes, that’s the name of their new chicken house, thanks to the brainstorming of my Plurking friends. Credit for the final name goes to Mr. McGregor’s Daughter Leslie at Growing a Garden in Davis.
My sister-in-law jumped in and even made us an official Palazzo di Pollo logo! I believe I may have to open my own Cafe Press store so I can sell t-shirts and other fun Palazzo di Pollo goods. What do you think? Don’t you need a Palazzo di Pollo apron? A Palazzo di Pollo ballcap?
Just to test the marketability of our chickens, we did a brief (VERY brief) photo shoot this afternoon to see how well they work as models. Maxine did fairly well. I, however, probably could use some work.
I only look a little tentative because we had to catch Maxine not once, but twice in order to get a photo without shadows. Let’s just say she was not amused.
And so, there we have it for today’s chicken story installment.
Next up: wild blueberry muffins (and not a word about chickens, I promise.)
By the way, you can follow me on Twitter at BumblebeeGarden. Chicken stories all day long!
Robin
..I will humor you with just a few.
Maxine, Maude and Myrtle make me laugh. Not only are their jerky motions and startled reactions at the smallest thing humorous, I particularly find their noises amusing. The sound they make most often sounds like a little old lady worrying “Ooooh, noooooooooo.” They go “Awwwwwwwwwhhhhhhh” and manage to sound so very worried the way they draw it out. All three will get into the act and it sounds like maybe they ran out of pudding at the old folks’ home cafeteria. “Awwwwwwwwwhhhhh.”
In the evenings, about an hour or two before sunset, I let the chickens out of their run for a little walkabout. They usually just wander along the edges or the woods or into the garden scratching and looking for bugs. As the sun sets, they wander back to their Eglu and put themselves to bed.
One evening I moved the Eglu a little too far and they became disoriented, going back to the front yard where the Eglu was first set up. I couldn’t seem to entice them back to where the Eglu was, so they started to roost in the River Birch by the house. I managed to snag Maude and walked slowly back to where the Eglu was located. Of course, she was going “Awwwwwhhhhhhh. Awwwwwwwwwhhhhhhh” the whole way. Everyone followed Maude back to the house and went to bed.
Did you know chickens love peaches? They don’t much care for bananas. And lettuce probably seems too much like grass. They also like cantaloupe.
“What about those chicks?” you ask.
Well, they are growing and growing. I can’t say they’re the most beautiful specimens. Minnie Ruth is, well, rather beaky. Olive (formerly Olivia) is looking just ratty. I have inspected for mites and bugs but don’t see any. I may treat them just to be on the safe side.
So there you have it…more chicken stories.
What’s going on with the garden? Well, lettuce and broccoli are planted. Spinach goes in soon in a coldframe. I have a lot of weeding to do as well as some tidy-up for the fall.
New in Examiner:
Extend your harvest with a coldframe
Why HGTV is a sham
Six ideas for organizing your garden to-do list
Count birds with Project Feederwatch
Robin
These extraordinary chickens just arrived on our doorstep on Thursday and already they have gifted me with not one, but TWO eggs!
Now what should I do with them? I know I have to save them for Harry and Ben to see before I make any decisions, but then after that?
I’m thinking that I should just eat them simply, as scrambled eggs for breakfast. But what if Harry and Ben want some? No. Harry doesn’t even like eggs unless they’re cooked into something. Ben will probably be disgusted because he has seen the chickens poop.
Yeah, that’s it. They won’t want any eggs anyway.
Besides, I’ll just tell them the chickens meant the eggs for me. After all, I’m the one who has been sitting in the red chicken chair keeping them company and telling them about their new family.
Of course, that begs the question of the third egg. There are three chickens and there were only two eggs. One chicken must be holding out on me. Where is the third egg?
And who is the slacker?
Robin
To catch you up on the chicken saga…After waiting for my much-anticipated chickens and receiving the crushing news that there would be a two- or three-week delay in the delivery of my chickens, I giddily came up with a Plan B: I would get baby chicks from the local Amish market!
Plan B had two distinct advantages aside from the obvious advantage of instant gratification. One, I would get a chance to bond with the chicks from a very early age, getting them accustomed to my voice, hands and constant companions, two yappy little dogs, as they grew into their full chicken-hood. Two, I could get them settled into their new home before I was distracted with a period of enforced quiet due to personal circumstances.
I found three wonderful little chicks at the market and subsequently asked the Omlet people to hold off on sending any other chickens until I gave the word that I was prepared–perhaps even as late as early spring. “A-okay” was the word from them.
Apparently, they forgot to pass the word along to the hatchery.
Yesterday, I received a surprise phone call from the local post office that I had some chickens waiting for pickup. What? I didn’t ask for any chickens right now!
To add to the surprise, I did not receive three white leghorn chickens that the Omlet people assured me would be just right for me, but three very large brown chickens that I believe are chestnut rangers.
These three ladies arrived full of attitude. These were not the cute little chicks that I had grown accustomed to in the past three weeks. These are chickens. Nearly full-grown BIG chickens. They look ready to start laying eggs any minute now!
After I pried them out of their box, they had many chicken stories to tell of their travels. Mostly, they wanted lunch.
The poor babies Minnie Ruth and Olivia, who I was not able to catch prior to releasing the three new hens due to the configuration of the chicken run, quickly retreated to a corner where I was able to capture them. They are back in their playpen for now where they wouldn’t be pecked to death.
Now, you may be wondering, what am I going to do with three big chickens and two baby chicks? Answer: I don’t know.
You may also be wondering what I am going to name the new chickens since two of the three names I had previously chosen are now in use? Answer: I don’t know. I suspect one will be named Maxine 2 or Too Maxine or some much in memory of my lost Polish chick.
My husband and son seem enamored of the idea of naming one of the chickens for Brett Favre or Aaron Rodgers. Silly men. That won’t happen.
In the meantime, we are just settling in for a good heavy rain and a big blow. The chickens put themselves to bed early in anticipation of the storm–even before the clouds started rolling up. I managed to entice them outside with some plump tomatoes and lettuce for a quick photo shoot. They are now looking warily at the sky as they have their evening salads.
And so the chicken saga continues…
Recently posted on Examiner.com:
Garden gloves review: Ethel gloves
Garden gloves review: Atlas Nitrile NT370
Robin
Notes from the garden today (aka, too tired to write much):
I headed outside this morning expecting to spend a couple of hours weeding. Instead, I found that my strategy of packing in the plants was working. The flowers, vines and vegetables had pretty much crowded out any weeds, so my weeding took all of about 20 minutes.
With so many plants packed into the kitchen garden, it also means that real estate is hard to come by here at Bumblebee. I finally picked the last of the tomatoes on the plants that had rallied nobly against the fusarium wilt so that I could plant broccoli. I’m eying the Armenian and Burpless cucumber patch now because I have to find room for the Brussels sprouts and collards. And where will I put those savoy cabbages? Thank goodness the lettuce and spinach are planted.
I always marvel at the beauty of the garlic chive blossoms. But guess what? If you let them go to seed you’ll be dealing with thousands and thousands of little garlic chive plants in your pathways. Take my word for it. Don’t let them go to seed.
Why haven’t I planted Russian sage before? Note to self: Plant more Russian sage.
The container plants are lush and full. I recall reading in some design magazine that the container should be mostly concealed by the plants. No problem here. Do you see the container? I don’t see any container.
So, how are things in your garden this August?
Recently posted on Examiner.com:
Garden glove review: Foxgloves Ergonomic
Ragweed season: Let the misery begin
Want local foods? Hire your own backyard farmer
Robin
Yesterday was a sad day here at Bumblebee Garden. Maxine, our very new Polish chick, passed away.
First thing in the morning she was fine, chirping and hopping around with Minnie Ruth and Olivia. An hour later she was down and unable to walk. An hour after that she was on her side and unable to move. She expired shortly after.
I was in a wretched mood all day. Then my friend Cindy from A Texas Cottage Garden emailed a wonderful piece of writing called How to Mourn a Kitten. Here’s my own abbreviated version that I call “How to Mourn a Baby Chick.”
Marvel that the other baby chicks are clearly disconcerted by the problem with their friend chick.
Wrap the baby chick in a clean town and place her in a box in a quiet place.
Examine her obsessively for cuts, bumps, bruises or other signs of trauma.
Spend 30 minutes sitting and observing the other chicks as they turn their attention back to pecking and chirping without their friend.
Return to the box to make sure the chick is really dead.
Wander around the house and feel a sense of being out of control.
Return to the box to make sure the chick is really dead.
Try to wrestle control issues by obsessively organizing the office, polishing the furniture and putting away books and papers.
Return to the box to make sure the chick is really dead.
Email, Plurk and Twitter friends about the chick’s passing.
Return to the box to make sure the chick is really dead.
Try to eat lunch—definitely not chicken.
Return to the box to make sure the chick is really dead. Feel the futility of checking to make sure the chick is really dead.
Obsessively clean the chicks’ playpen, rig new heat lamp and coo soothingly to the remaining chicks.
Meet son as he returns from school to share the sad news. Stand quietly, side-by-side with son, to make sure the chick is really dead.
Watch as the macho 17-year-old male insists on giving the chick a proper burial in the woods. Smile in appreciation to have raised a son who cares about such things as baby chicks.
Hope he made sure the chick was really dead.
Au revoir, Maxine. Bonne nuit.
Robin
After three days of calling my local post office to ask if any of their boxes there were making cluck-clucking sounds, I finally called the Omlet company to see if they had any leads on my chickens. Sadly, it turned out that my much anticipated chickens would be be delayed for two to four weeks.
Frankly, in two to four weeks I will be traveling or otherwise indisposed. So I took off to the local Amish market to see what they had to say about my chicken situation. That is where I fell in love.
Meet my new baby chickens.
Here’s Olivia.
I am told that Olivia is a White Rock chicken. She will grow up to be the prototypical white chicken that we saw in our children’s books. At two weeks, she is shy and does a good bit of peeping. She has warmed up nicely to being handled in just a few days.
Olivia is named after my maternal grandmother. Grandma Olivia was a bit, uh, prickly. Let’s hope that Olivia is a bit more friendly–and doesn’t bite.
This is Maxine.
Maxine is a Polish chicken. That means that when she grows up to be a big chicken she will have a fancy head of feathers that resembles a lady’s Easter bonnet. At two weeks, Maxine is very vocal. She makes all manner of PEEP PEEP sounds. When you pick her up, she makes a little chirp sound.
Maxine is named after my grandma Olivia’s younger sister Maxine. Maxine never married, but had a career, traveled and loved fine things, good conversation and–EXERCISE. I was fortunate enough to celebrate Maxine’s 90th birthday luncheon back in January. She explained how she still lifted weights three times a week and stayed in touch with any number of friends, young and old.
This is Minnie Ruth.
Minnie Ruth is an Araucana chicken, although not likely a purebred. Although she is supposed to be the same age as the other chicks, she is quite a bit larger and is usually the chick the other two gather around for protection and warmth.
Minnie Ruth is named after my father’s mom. She was the mother of seven children. She adored eating, Western romance novels and soap operas. She believed everything she ever heard or read, including what was published in the National Enquirer. She never met anyone she didn’t like and always had a childlike joy in the smallest things that life brought.
Perhaps you can see why I named my new chickens after family?
Join me in welcoming my new chickens. Long live the chickens!
Robin
I love critters. (Especially when they don’t eat my tomatoes.) And I’ve been wanting to invite some chickens to live here at Bumblebee Garden for some time. So I’m just tickled pink that I finally worked up enough nerve to place my order for an Omlet Eglu house and three white leghorn chickens.
I’m already thinking about names. Maxine, after my 90-year-old great aunt? Minnie Ruth, after my grandmother? Olivia or Outa (as in “oh you’da died”) after other family members? Let the games begin!
Despite the fact that the temperatures here in August have been humid and hot, the garden is still looking fairly good, although the inevitable decline is just around the corner.
The malabar spinach is just beautiful. It’s wonderful in cooking, but you don’t really want to eat it raw. Imaging picking some leaves from your front landscaping. Hummm. Very green tasting.
Those are some zinnias that the butterflies just adore. And behind them are some Fordhook lima beans. My teenage son adores lima beans. In fact, he may be the only teenager in the world who adores lima beans. So, by God, I am growing him some lima beans.
The container plantings are just coming into their own. Well, after all, I did hang on to those pansies from last fall a bit longer than I should have.
Good grief. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the fact that I’ll be planting fall containers again so soon.
Where does the time go?
Robin
