spring has sprung

How did it suddenly become March?

I guess this is what happens when weekdays are spent in meetings, weekends on ridiculously long bike rides (I've already hit the 57-mile mark) and mornings helping chickens masturbate.

Yes, you read that correctly. And yes, this is probably something I should not admit to the entire world, especially via the Interwebs. (To everyone I know or will end up knowing at some point in my life: I'm normal. I swear.)

The whole thing started when I noticed McNugget would squat down and push up her elbows (do chickens have elbows?) every time I walked next to her. I thought this meant she wanted to be picked up, so I would carry her around while I refreshed the feeding troughs, worked in the garden, etc. (In case you are wondering, this was awkward. And I was constantly scared she was going to poop on me.) But then I told a friend's mom (who is my chicken guru) about McNugget's behavior.

The chicken guru conclusion: McNugget thinks I'm a rooster (maybe it's the awesome blue rubber boots I wear to work in the chicken yard?), and I should "tickle her under her wings and see what happens."

So I did.

And that chicken's ass swiveled up into the air faster than you could say "Sexual healing."

One more skill I can add to my resume.

the six-month saga of chickens

Life as a chicken parent hasn't been easy.

I started off last May with 11 fuzzy babies: Two Araucanas and nine Brahmas (three each of the light, dark and buff varieties).

In non-chicken-nerd terms, this means: Two chickens with green legs and nine that look like they're wearing pants. (Kate, do not mock the pants! Not only are they fashionable, they provide protection from the elements! You know, since it gets so frigid in California.)

Within a week of arrival, two of the Brahma chicks -- a buff and a dark -- died. Not sure what happened -- they just got very lethargic and started breathing heavily. And then they were gone.

But the rest grew. And grew. And eventually, they got too big for their box, so they went outside. And since the coop at my house wasn't quite ready yet, they stayed in a friend's backyard.

Only they didn't exactly "stay" where they were supposed to.

I can't tell you how many times we found them wandering around in the front yard or at the neighbor's place. (Dear chickies: It was like you wanted something awful to happen to you. Do you have any idea how much stress you caused?) We ended up losing one of the white Brahmas -- she just disappeared without a trace. We went door-to-door looking for her, but no luck.

So we clipped the chickens' wings. And all was fine (well, except for the diarrhea incident when the chickens had to go on antibiotics for awhile), until we realized one of girls was really a boy.

And even though Bob was a lovely, well-mannered young man, he had to find a new home -- my landlord absolutely did not want a rooster around. So Bob and his favorite hen (affectionately known as Chicken Shit -- yes, I'm a horrible person) went to live on a farm in Bennett Valley. Last I heard, it's been happily ever after for the two of them -- Bob has quite a harem now, and Chicken Shit developed faster than the rest of her sisters and started laying eggs before Christmas. (Damn her.)

Meanwhile, the coop was completed in November ...

... and inspected by the resident Cat Princess (nothing happens around here without feline approval). And the six remaining hens finally came home to my house, where they subsequently drove me crazy by flying over the fence all the time. And I would chase them around and eventually catch them and put them back in their pen, only to have to chase them around again two hours later.

And not a single one of them was laying eggs. All they did was poo everywhere and eat a bunch of food and fly away. I clipped their wings and started lecturing them, accusing them of "low ROI" (you know you have issues when you start using corporate jargon with your backyard fowl). Huge amounts of frustration. Huge!

And just when I thought it couldn't get worse, General Tso, the smartest and prettiest hen, got killed by a neighbor's dog. This photo was taken just a few days before the incident:

So then I found myself filing complaints with Animal Control and basically living an episode of one of those shows on Animal Planet. And I also learned how to pluck and gut a chicken, so it can be transformed into this:

Yes, folks, I ate General Tso. Maybe that makes me an extra-horrible person, but I thought it would be best not to let her life go to waste. And hey, if you're going to preach farm to table, you might as well go all the way. (Perhaps this is TMI, but I even ate her brain. It tasted like really, really gamey pâté. I probably won't go there again.)

And still the nightmare continued: Earlier this month, the same dog returned to my yard and killed the other Araucana, Colonel Sanders. (OK, I guess with names like these, maybe I was kind of asking for it.) I ate her, too, although she didn't taste quite as good as the General.

So more calls to Animal Control were made. And more reports filed. And every day I'm sort of afraid of picking up the phone because I don't want to hear that another hen has been killed.

Four girls remain, all Brahmas: Repeep (far left), McNugget, Peep and Hot Wings.

And I don't let them free-range in their yard like I used to because I'm afraid the dog is going to come back. I hate seeing them enclosed like this, but until the dog issue is resolved, this is the best way to protect them. I give them my table scraps so they don't just eat feed all the time, but they're funny -- they won't eat the vegetables. They seem to only want to eat bread and tortillas. (Apparently chickens like to carbo-load?)

But despite six months of chicken drama, I finally have good news: I found eggs yesterday!

Repeep has started laying! Aren't her eggs gorgeous? And ginormous for a pullet? I'm so proud of her. I found two more this morning. (Way to boost that ROI, Repeep!) So now I'm less frustrated. And will actually consider buying these for my girls once they start molting.

Because they already have pants, so why not get them a fun top to match?

(Problems, I know.)

food, glorious food.

Yet another reason why I'm a terrible person and should never be your role model: I ate about a quarter of the salad I ordered for lunch, and then I fed it to the chickens.

And then I ate this instead:

With ranch dressing, of course. (Because really, is there any other way?)

And on that note, may I present my New Year's Resolutions, a.k.a. The Annual List of Restaurants/Food Purveyors/Drinking Holes I'd Like to Go to in 2013. (For reference, last year's list can be found here. And I only actually made it to four of the 10 places in 2012. But whatever. It's not a contest.)

Ramen Shop (Oakland): Three friends from Chez Panisse open a ramen shop featuring locally-sourced ingredients and sides like wild nettle fried rice? How come I am not already living in their kitchen?!

The Casino Bar & Grill (Bodega): A holdover from last year. Can't believe I still haven't eaten there. I look at their Facebook page pretty much daily and drool over the ever-changing menu.

The Parish Cafe (Healdsburg): Supposedly, all kinds of Cajun awesomeness. I tried to go for lunch one day, but the restaurant is so small that if you don't get there right when it opens, there's a long-ass wait.

Social Club (Petaluma): I've heard mixed reviews -- some of my friends love it, and some think it's overrated. I want to make my own decisions -- and possibly try some of the duck confit hash that's on the brunch menu.

Betty's Fish and Chips (Santa Rosa): You know those times when you drive past a restaurant and think, That looks intriguing -- I wonder what it's like? That's exactly how I feel about Betty's. Also, I like fried food.

Alexander Valley Bar (Healdsburg): Did you know Medlock Ames has a secret bar in the back of its tasting room? This makes me insanely jealous. Dear wineries I work for: Why do you not have secret bars?!

Bergamot Alley (Healdsburg): The wine bar to trump all wine bars in Sonoma County. Or so say the geekiest of the wine geeks. I say, "Bring on the nerdiness!"

Savor Spice Shop (Santa Rosa): Another one I didn't make it to last year. And I have no excuses this time around, especially since I just borrowed this book from the library and now need to hunt down obscure spices.

Bear Korean Restaurant (Cotati): Confession: I am a total Korean food newbie. The only Korean food I've ever had is from Tov Tofu, and I've been told there's more to the Korean food world out there.

St. George Spirits (Alameda): Because I am completely and totally obsessed with gin. And I absolutely love their Botanivore.

And now excuse me while I double over in pain due to a French fry binge-induced stomache.

15

... days since my last post. So I'll give you 15 really random things:

One: I was there when Shaya lost her virginity -- her racing virginity, that is. (Yes, it's a dumb joke. So yes, I had to.) She joined us a few weekends ago for the Awesome '80s Run, an excellent choice for a first 10K. What better way to soothe the nerves than by drinking the night before and dressing like a fool? Shaya did a fantastic job -- proud of her and looking forward to running with her in Austin in February, when she surrenders her 13.1 V-card.

Two: I don't care if it's 2012. I really like leg warmers. And those leg warmers in the photo above? Not just a costume, folks. (Should I be admitting this?)

Three: I will need to learn German. Why? I'm Berlin-bound next September. (Since we're surrendering V-cards left and right here, might as well do my first international race, yes?) The funny part: Race fees for Berlin are $100 cheaper than New York. Even funnier: I still don't know what's going on with my New York status. Funniest ever: NYRR's definition of communication.

Four: For Thanksgiving, I tested my parents' love for me by convincing them to do a turkey trot. They're good sports. My mom actually used a port-a-potty. And I set a new 5K PR (26:16).

Five: Speaking of L.A., have you ever gone to a Koreatown spa? The kind where all the spa-goers are totally nude and you get scrubbed down with a Brillo pad by a don't-mess-with-me woman in nothing but a bra and panties? So that was my other Thanksgiving activity. My skin is still ridiculously soft from the scouring.

Six: Over the past few days, I've ingested the equivalent of an entire can of Spam. Before you judge, realize that Spam is like comfort food -- I grew up eating it with fried eggs and garlic rice for breakfast (freaking awesome). My parents know this is my weak spot (topped only by Del Taco, which is almost always the first stop after the airport when I'm in L.A. -- seriously, do not judge), so whenever I'm in town, they have Spam. This time, they even sent me home with two cans. Thankfully, airport security did not ask questions.

Seven: My friend gave me an autographed Scott Jurek poster that says: "Michaela, dig deep!" Oh, Scott Jurek: I'll dig however you want me to dig.

Eight: P.S. Scott Jurek, I finished your book. It got a little emo at the end, but I still love you. Don't worry -- you'll never be Dean Karnazes.

Nine: After taking a month off from swimming to focus on the marathon, I'm back in the pool again. I'm also trying to learn more strokes besides freestyle and (a very crooked) backstroke. I'll be excited when the breaststroke doesn't make me feel like a frog stuck in mud. (I'll also be excited when I can say breaststroke without giggling. Maturity at its finest.)

Ten: I know this will come as a surprise, but I ate ramen. This is the tonkotsu black bowl from Robata Jinya:

Eleven: See that egg in the photo above? My chickens have yet to create anything remotely like it. All they do is eat and poo and fly over the fence and make me have to chase them around. At least they are nice to look at. And they give me a reason to drive around with stuff like this in the back of my car (I'm officially from Sonoma County now):

Twelve: My new favorite kitchen appliance is the slow cooker. Throwing a bunch of things into a pot and turning the dial to "on" before I leave for work is pretty much the best thing ever. In fact, I am so in love with the slow cooker (are you jealous, Scott Jurek?) that the next food party my friends and I are planning to throw will have a crockpot theme. (And yes, Scott Jurek, you are invited. Let me guess -- you'll be bringing the vegan dish, correct?)

Thirteen: I found heaven. OK, so it was a farm in Napa with 25 feral cats. Apparently, people have been dumping cats on this couples' property, and they're now trying to find homes for the animals. If you're interested, let me know. Many of the cats are already spayed and neutered.

Fourteen: I brought a kitten home yesterday! She's not one of the ferals from the farm above (I was worried I wouldn't be home enough to be able to properly socialize a feral). But she is a rescue from a high-kill shelter in Fresno. Her name is Mandy, and she has the loudest purr I've ever heard. Isn't she adorable?

Fifteen: And yes, I've been counting down throughout this post to announce that news. New baby! So exciting!

poor bob

Remember the chickies? They're teenagers now. And even though I ordered pullets from the hatchery, one of them has turned out to be a boy. A cockerel, if you will. (Now say that with a straight face. I swear, my maturity kills me.)

This is Bob. He's a sweetheart -- not aggressive at all, likes to eat out of your hand, always lets the ladies go first. The only problem: He's really loud and will crow for a good 15 minutes straight at 6 a.m. every single day.

And my landlord hates this.

So I am desperately trying to find Bob a new home -- and sadly discovering no one wants a cock. (I'm sorry. I had to. Like I said: Maturity.) I tried placing him at one of my wineries, but there are already two roosters in the flock and they don't want any more. I went to the feed store, and they'll take a rooster, but the birds sit in small cages until someone buys them, which breaks my heart since Bob spends his days running around in the grass with the ladies. My friend Scott, who has chickens and goats and lots of land, won't take him because his kids were attacked by a rooster once and now they're afraid of them.

I've asked co-workers and my Pilates teacher and basically anyone I run into if they can help. And now I'm asking anyone who reads this (yeah, all five of you -- ha): Does anyone know anyone who lives on acreage and wants a very nice rooster who looks like he's wearing pants?

The final resort, of course, is to eat Bob. I am prepared to do this if I have to -- I'd rather be the one to eat him than send him to the feed store, where he'll sit in a cage for awhile and then a stranger will eat him. But I'd like to avoid making chicken soup if I can.

Any ideas?

guess what?

Chicken butt!

In the free time I have between work, falling off of my bike and eating massive amounts of food (which I blame entirely on "training"), I go to war with bugs.

This involves waking up early every morning to smash squash bugs in the garden (an ongoing battle that deserves a post of its own -- I hate those damn things and it sicks me out that they are almost always glued together at the butt -- get a room!), scrape hundreds of tiny green eggs off of my artichokes (this also sicks me out) and hose spittle bugs off of my mint (not as gross, but still annoying).

I've decided I need more soldiers to help me fight the good (organic) fight.

Enter chickens.

I'm splitting an order of pullets (look at me and my flockster terminology!) with one of the vineyard managers at work. The girls are a mix of Brahmas (light, buff and dark) -- a gentle, docile breed known for being good foragers (kill the bugs!) that look like they are wearing pants (I can't tell you how happy this makes me) and Araucanas, a friendly, poofy-cheeked chicken that lays bluish-green eggs.

Anyway, this morning at about 4:15, I got a call from the post office telling me my chicks had arrived. It was all I could do to keep from jumping out of bed and rushing off to pick them up right then and there.

  
How funny that chicks are sent via snail mail, right? Even more awesome: The post office was filled with the sound of chirping -- apparently, I'm not the only one ordering chickens!

The girls are now all settled into their brooder. It didn't take them long to figure out the food and water -- a few of them ate themselves silly and then passed out beakdown in the shavings for a nap! (This is entirely normal, by the way. It looks funny, but it's normal.)

I can't wait to go home tonight and watch them. (And I don't know how I'm going to manage to give some of them away to the vineyard manager. They are just so darn cute.)