Unusual Chickens for the Exceptional Poultry Farmer by Kelly Jones Page B
Authors: Kelly Jones
Ads: Link
they’re harder than regular chickens, and I don’t care that I don’t already know everything about how to take care of them. You sold them to Great-Uncle Jim, and now I’ve inherited them. You can’t take them back. So don’t even think about it.
Sincerely,
Sophie
PS Her name is Chameleon now.
PPS Great-Uncle Jim’s henhouse works just fine for his chickens.
PPPS I’m ready for Lesson 3.
June 22, 2014
Mariposa García González
Land of the Dead
Querida Abuelita,
I wish I’d asked you about your chickens while you were alive. What kind did you have when you were a girl, before you came to this country? Did you name them, or just eat them? I know you had to be practical and use what you had. But if you’re still around keeping an eye on me, would you please keep an eye on my chickens too? They aren’t very good at keeping quiet yet.
Three days ago, Chameleon laid her first egg. I hid it in the fridge like Agnes said to, so this morning for breakfast I scrambled it and Mom, Dad, and I each had two bites. Mom said it was the best egg she’d ever tasted. And Dad said maybe chickens were pretty useful after all. (I had to pretend that Henrietta laid the egg, since they don’t know about Chameleon yet, and I don’t really think they’re ready to try and understand chickens that lay glass eggs.) Then we all talked about our favorite egg recipes, and Dad told me about something Great-Uncle Jim used to make, called popovers. They’re like a really tall muffin that isn’t sweet, that falls over. He said we could make them sometime, if we can find the pan. But your migas is what we all loved best. I wish I could read your recipe, but since I can’t, I’m going to look for one at the library. It will be the best surprise ever when I make it for my parents.
After breakfast, when I went to check and make sure Henrietta and Chameleon hadn’t dumped their water jars over yet, I saw that black streak chicken again. I’ve been worried about it. Agnes says it likes tomatoes, but it’s not like we can afford to waste tomatoes on a chicken my parents don’t know exists and wouldn’t necessarily want to catch anyway. I wish Great-Uncle Jim had a garden with tomatoes. Dad was talking about weeding the old vegetable patch the other day, but he didn’t get around to it. He doesn’t seem to know very much about farms, even though I got him some library books on how to grow things. He spends most of his time walking around the grapevines, shaking his head. By the time we get tomatoes, it will probably be Christmas.
So I used what I had, just like you always taught me. I got sunflower seeds from Great-Uncle Jim’s can, and I put them on the ground in a trail leading up to the old dog crate. I thought maybe I could catch and keep it in there until it got used to me. (You’d be proud of me; I did a good job of cleaning the crate after Chameleon pooped in it. It was gross. But I told myself there’s no shame in hard work, just like you would have said, and that all the work has to get done by somebody. For a minute, I couldn’t remember what your voice sounded like when you said those things, and I was really sad. But now I remember.)
The problem was that Henrietta and Chameleon immediately started eating the seeds themselves. I explained that they were for the black streak chicken, but they just ignored me. So I had to go get more seeds and keep filling in the holes where they ate through the trail. Chameleon vanishes every time Henrietta glares at her. She’s getting pretty used to me, though. And the seeds kept disappearing where she’d been, so I knew she hadn’t really left.
Anyway, all this ruined my plan to put out the seeds and hide in the bushes and wait. Finally, I just put a whole bunch of seeds out and went to sit in the shade and read my new book. It’s pretty good so far. I’m going to read it myself before I read it to the chickens, just in case it might scare them. I was at an exciting part,
Sincerely,
Sophie
PS Her name is Chameleon now.
PPS Great-Uncle Jim’s henhouse works just fine for his chickens.
PPPS I’m ready for Lesson 3.
June 22, 2014
Mariposa García González
Land of the Dead
Querida Abuelita,
I wish I’d asked you about your chickens while you were alive. What kind did you have when you were a girl, before you came to this country? Did you name them, or just eat them? I know you had to be practical and use what you had. But if you’re still around keeping an eye on me, would you please keep an eye on my chickens too? They aren’t very good at keeping quiet yet.
Three days ago, Chameleon laid her first egg. I hid it in the fridge like Agnes said to, so this morning for breakfast I scrambled it and Mom, Dad, and I each had two bites. Mom said it was the best egg she’d ever tasted. And Dad said maybe chickens were pretty useful after all. (I had to pretend that Henrietta laid the egg, since they don’t know about Chameleon yet, and I don’t really think they’re ready to try and understand chickens that lay glass eggs.) Then we all talked about our favorite egg recipes, and Dad told me about something Great-Uncle Jim used to make, called popovers. They’re like a really tall muffin that isn’t sweet, that falls over. He said we could make them sometime, if we can find the pan. But your migas is what we all loved best. I wish I could read your recipe, but since I can’t, I’m going to look for one at the library. It will be the best surprise ever when I make it for my parents.
After breakfast, when I went to check and make sure Henrietta and Chameleon hadn’t dumped their water jars over yet, I saw that black streak chicken again. I’ve been worried about it. Agnes says it likes tomatoes, but it’s not like we can afford to waste tomatoes on a chicken my parents don’t know exists and wouldn’t necessarily want to catch anyway. I wish Great-Uncle Jim had a garden with tomatoes. Dad was talking about weeding the old vegetable patch the other day, but he didn’t get around to it. He doesn’t seem to know very much about farms, even though I got him some library books on how to grow things. He spends most of his time walking around the grapevines, shaking his head. By the time we get tomatoes, it will probably be Christmas.
So I used what I had, just like you always taught me. I got sunflower seeds from Great-Uncle Jim’s can, and I put them on the ground in a trail leading up to the old dog crate. I thought maybe I could catch and keep it in there until it got used to me. (You’d be proud of me; I did a good job of cleaning the crate after Chameleon pooped in it. It was gross. But I told myself there’s no shame in hard work, just like you would have said, and that all the work has to get done by somebody. For a minute, I couldn’t remember what your voice sounded like when you said those things, and I was really sad. But now I remember.)
The problem was that Henrietta and Chameleon immediately started eating the seeds themselves. I explained that they were for the black streak chicken, but they just ignored me. So I had to go get more seeds and keep filling in the holes where they ate through the trail. Chameleon vanishes every time Henrietta glares at her. She’s getting pretty used to me, though. And the seeds kept disappearing where she’d been, so I knew she hadn’t really left.
Anyway, all this ruined my plan to put out the seeds and hide in the bushes and wait. Finally, I just put a whole bunch of seeds out and went to sit in the shade and read my new book. It’s pretty good so far. I’m going to read it myself before I read it to the chickens, just in case it might scare them. I was at an exciting part,
Similar Books
