i am a chicken farmer part 1

I am a chicken farmer.  I am an urban chicken farmer.  I am an urban chicken farmer raising fancy chickens.  I am a super hip urban chicken farmer raising fancy chickens.  I am a super hip urban chicken farmer raising fancy chickens in a Pinterest worthy coop.  I am a super hip urban chicken farmer raising fancy chickens in a custom built Pinterest worthy coop with my slightly more hip neighbors. 

There, I like how that sounds now.  I have been speaking it into existence over the last few weeks.  It’s all migrated from my daydreams into to my reality except maybe for the hip part.  While self fulfilling prophecy can place chickens in one’s back yard I am not certain it can be powerful enough transform one into someone others would describe as hip.  But just in case…  I am a super hip momma that can fit into super cute size eight farm girl overalls… I am a super hip momma that can fit into super cute size eight farm girl overalls…

I have wanted chickens or some type of poultry for years or at least since the great passing of the quail flock.  Many obstacles stood in my path particularly my common sense and my husband.  These were both easily overcame a few weeks ago when my neighbor M casually mentioned to me that she would love to have backyard chickens.  I proceeded to tell her my quail story and my shared desire to have backyard chickens.  Things proceeded quickly from there.  Shortly after our light hearted conversation she mentioned to my husband that we were getting chickens together.  Note I did not say asked or showed interest or brought up for discussion… She simply told him we were getting chickens.  It was quickly discovered that my husband was unable to look her in the eye and tell her no the way he can so quickly with me.  This was a little tidbit I picked up on and have tucked away for later ammunition or manipulation.  You know, the next time I want a cat or to acquire more children or something.

One minute we were having a casual conversation while nursing our matching baby girls in my front yard (we may be backyard chicken farmers but we are certainly front yard baby nursers) and the next minute we were scraping chicken poop off our feet after touring our first chicken farm. 

The first chicken farm was ran by the self proclaimed and very arrogant chicken man who made it his mission to make us bow at his chicken poop covered boots and proclaim that he was the all knowing chicken king and we were simply two city girls that desperately needed him and his very plain chickens if we intended on being even mildly successful.  I was fine to allow the king to lead the conversation and give us his opinions in fact form.  M however did go head to head with him on more than a few points and even suggested once that we were interested in pretty chickens.  Both of these were offensive to the king and grounds for head shaking and eye rolling but none as offensive as when she admitted she preferred to purchase her chicken at the grocery store instead of killing her own.  The only great piece of information we took away from that field trip was that this was not the right chicken supplier for us.

To be continued...