For most of my life the humble garden-variety chook has been a supporting actor-or an extra in our family’s story and my story. The hen has provided us with eggs (and in my childhood-meat), affection, therapy and some funny moments.
My earliest chook memory involved my little brother who was very indignant, and chasing a chook around the family’s backyard. She had swallowed his tooth- and with it the anticipated windfall from the tooth fairy.
Hens have always eaten our family’s kitchen scraps. This was our practice way before it was prudent to consider what you did with your green waste and considered the environment.
When our children were in primary school, they won a day-old chick in a fete raffle. We kept “Chickee” and put her on the lawn during the day in a little mesh and timber cage- loaned by Granddad. At night, we brought her in and kept her in a box in the laundry. It was not long before the fluffy yellow chick turned into an auburn pullet. The cardboard box could not contain her, so we had to find her a new home. Granddad adopted her and found her a permanent perch in his chicken coop.
The telling moment was when I woke up late one night to realise my husband was not yet in bed and the television was still blaring. I found “Chickee” out of her box, on the couch and nestled in the crook of his warm sleeping body. When she moved to Granddad’s, she soon transferred her affections to him. He would often have to scoop her off the top of his ‘fridge on his back deck and return her to the coop.
“Mrs Chook” was our last hen. We have been moving about this year and she was the last girl on the perch. All the others had died separately from old age and we had not thought to replace them. We eventually gave her away to another family who now enjoy her cuddles and eggs.
She too was affectionate and there was a telling moment. She had taken to perching on our back deck rather than returning to the hen palace at night. I did not mind hosing her poo off the back deck but I soon did mind, when in our new home she perched on the cars in the driveway and on the carpeted front entry’s handrail. It was okay when her cloaca faced the garden but not when it faced the door. Unbelievable how much fertiliser one chook can deposit in a night.
I miss not talking to my ‘girls’ in the morning. There’s something enjoyable about wandering out to the backyard to be met by hungry and warbling, happy hens. I would often stumble out with sleep still in my eyes and with recycled food scraps and grain in my hands. When mowing the backyard they would chase me and the lawnmower to catch any dislodged insects from the freshly cut grass. I confess it’s rather nice to have company like that.
Equally satisfying is eating a poached, fresh egg that sits pertly on the breakfast plate with its saffron yolk. It did not seem quite so wasteful to dispose of the yolks when making a wicked pavlova with whites, when the fridge was full of backyard eggs. It does feel wicked nowadays though; as I scrape our food scraps into the rubbish bin.
The chicken coup and hen’s palace currently lay vacant. Instead of hens to feed in the morning I am now picking tomatoes. We have an abundant crop of cherry tomatoes that have sprung up from the mixture of chicken poo and food scraps.
Thank-you “Mrs Chook” -and “Chickee”, for your part in my story. You are very humble and your role may have been minor, but your presence brought much joy. Next time around I might be a bit more creative with names though!
On the Blog! 
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