I Despise That Chicken

This morning I read an article about how environmentally conscious hipsters are dumping their chickens by the Prius load at animal shelters, and now the animal shelters are stressed under the heavy burden of all these unwanted chickens. Apparently they are getting more than they bargained for when they adopted those fiendish adorable creatures. I hate to be the one to say "I told you so," but...

I KNEW IT WOULD COME TO THIS.

A couple years ago, when this trend of backyard hen-raising came to be, I remember thinking to myself, "HA! These people have NO CLUE what they are getting into. Nobody in their RIGHT MIND would keep chickens and enjoy it."

Because I know from experience something that all these hipsters have learned the hard way:

CHICKENS ARE THE DEVIL.

I'm not even kidding. And I can say it, because I know that they are. You see, back in the late 90's days of my youth, before chickens came into my life and stole my innocence, my mom and dad decided to buy some baby chicks. They were the original hipsters, ahead of their time. The idea was that we would raise the baby chicks to become hens and lay lots of fresh, delicious eggs.

And I, being a dutiful daughter, accepted the responsibility of caring for the chickens.

Oh, Jess. How naive you were.

As with most things that pertain to the devil, in the beginning it was OK. The chicks were adorable little yellow fluffballs and we kept them under a warming lamp in the back room of our house. They made little chirping noises and cuddled with each other and hardly ever pooped.

Idyllic visions danced in my head. Visions of barnyard chickens peacefully pecking in the yard and laying fresh, white, delicious eggs. The chicks were so cute, it seemed that nothing could go wrong with this situation. But that is HOW THE DEVIL WORKS, people. He seduces you with illusions of happiness until you've gotten yourself in deep and it's too late to turn back.

I went gung-ho with my new responsibilities. The hens needed a coop to move into when they came of age. My dad provided me with some split logs and a couple 2x4's and I nailed away for about 3 days (Don't worry, I was a husky girl. I could handle it.). At the end of that time, I had inexpertly constructed about 1/16 of one coop wall.

My dad took over after that, and within 2 hours he had raised a full chicken coop, complete with roosts and a working door.

My mom got all the necessary chicken-raising supplies, including feeding pans and watering devices, which look like an upside-down mason jar attached to a bowl. I remember Mom telling me that it was so the chickens couldn't poop in their water.

Oh, how wrong she was.

Finally the chickens were fully mature and ready to lay eggs, and we moved them into their new coop. I woke up early the next morning, my 13-year-old self excited to go out and collect the first batch of eggs and feed the chickens.

I curled my bangs and attired myself in my best baggy jeans, t-shirt, Doc Marten knockoffs, and scrunchie on my wrist. Bounding out to the chicken coop, egg basket in hand, I thought to myself what a wonderful thing it was that we had chickens. I'd become a regular chicken maid; a teenage expert in romantic fowl-rearing. I'd support my scrunchie habit on the sales of my fresh eggs...

Then I opened the coop door and met with a horrifying scene.

Poop. There was poop everywhere.

Poop.

Everywhere.

I mean everywhere.

There was at least 6 inches of chicken poop covering every flat surface and many non-flat surfaces. Poop streaked the walls of the coop. The feeding pans were covered with poop. The supposedly magical poop-proof watering jars were somehow coated with poop both inside and out.

In a daze, I stumbled back to the house to trade my Docs for some more practical chore boots before I could actually venture inside the coop. Once I entered that den of iniquity, 10 chickens immediately flew on my head and pooped all over my body. They ruined my bangs and befouled my perm with their feces. Eventually--after I had removed each clawed chicken from my body--in a pile of poop-covered poop, I found 3 eggs. One was tiny and deformed (we later found it had no yolk). All 3 eggs were absolutely coated with chicken crap.

At this point, I realized that we had made a horrible, horrible mistake. But we had hens; there was no turning back now. We had made our bed, now we had to lie in it.

Providing a clean, humane home for the chickens soon turned into drudgery of the worst kind. Each day was more horrific than the last. Every morning I would wake up, put on my worst clothes, and tromp out to the coop to feed the chickens, change their water, collect the eggs, and shovel poop. Every day dawned a new, poop filled nightmare. I am convinced I spent fully half that year just shoveling the mounds and mounds of black and white chicken poo. The chicken turds that I slung would have been enough to fertilize the entire bread basket region of Europe.

The days began to blur together like a nightmarish, crap-filled, endless video loop. It seemed there would be no end.

Enter my two younger brothers.

At that point in his life, my dad was really into trapping. And sled dogs. So he had a ton of traps put away for the summer and my brothers, young, curious, with deadly hunter instincts, could not resist themselves.

They set a few traps around the yard. I think they were hoping to catch a fox or maybe a couple skunks or raccoons.

Instead my chickens escaped and fell victim to the traps. It was a glorious day.

But sadly, not all the nefarious fowl were killed. And it seemed that even though a quarter of the flock had been lost, the amount of chicken poop did not decrease.

Then a few months later, my family went on an overnight camping trip. When we came home, we found that one of the sled dogs had gotten loose and slaughtered all the chickens. They lay dead, their bloody corpses, severed limbs, and torn-out feathers littering the yard.

I had never seen so beautiful a sight in all my life.

I scratched the dog's ears and gave him an extra treat that day. He was my hero.

And thus, the world was rid of a great evil and my permanent wave was no more polluted by flying poultry poop.

The End.

Half-Bum Dinner: Mini Pizza

As a child, part of our moral code was (and still is) keeping a clean mouth. Not the brush-and-floss kind of clean, but the profanity kind of clean. I grew up in my beloved LDS faith and part of our strict, but nurturing, moral code was avoiding swear words.

I have several childhood memories associated with profanity:

1) I heard my Mom swear once when I was about 13. It was the only time I've ever heard her swear in my life. I went to my room and cried. I was pretty sure at that moment that my Mom was going to Heck (she's not).

2) Once I was really mad at my younger brother. I think I was around 12 and we were fighting over which movie to watch. He probably wanted to watch Lost in the Barrens and I probably wanted to watch Split Infinity or something. Most of our movies were from Feature Films for Families. Anyway, at some point in our battle over the VCR, I realized I had just lost the fight and in a fit of rage, I thew my video down and screamed, "FINE! WATCH YOUR D*** MOVIE!" I don't remember getting into a ton of trouble for that one, even though Mom was sitting right there. I did feel extremely guilty, though.

3) Not only were we not allowed to cuss, but the following words (among others) were banned in our house: Dang, gosh, gosh dang, freak, flip, shut up, screw, crap, butt, and suck. We were also not allowed to say "Oh my stars," or "Oh my heavens!"

4) After the video incident, I did not say a swear word again for about 12 years. Not even to QUOTE anyone. No lie.

5) When I was a young single adult (not really a childhood memory, but it happened before my non-swearing streak was broken, so I'm counting it), I worked for one of my uncles, who was a manager at a scrapbook company in Salt Lake. I also lived with the same uncle and aunt. I basically worshiped the ground they walked on (and still do).
   One day during the workday I innocently went to my uncle's office to ask a question. As soon as I showed up in the open doorway, I heard him let the H-word fly to a co-worker. SHOCKING. He looked up and saw me. We both turned beet red and I ducked my head and ran away down the hall like a bat out of the unmentionable place he had just mentioned. I was shocked to hear an expletive fly from his lips, since I had been rebuked by him when I was 8 or 9 for saying the P-word. I relived the awkward moment several times in my head afterward. I wondered if his wife knew and vowed NEVER to speak of it, until my uncle brought it up in conversation with my aunt one day.

6) As a child, I was allowed to say a short list of faux swear words: shoot, cotton pickin', heck, and darn

7) I heard my Dad swear once when I was about 14. It was *almost* the only time I've ever heard him swear in my life. I went to my room and cried. I was pretty sure at that moment that my Dad was going to Heck (he's not).

Nowadays, I have some repenting to do, but I do have some strict profanity rules that I abide by before I let one fly. My rules are: Basically all swear words are banned. I allow myself to say the h-word only in the sole company of my husband, and as long as it is referring to the place, not the idea. The h-word is only to be employed on the rarest of occasions. Or when I'm quoting someone. I also have said the B-word once when I was super mad, but I made sure to pronounce the "i" as ee-yaw, Mean Girls style... I'm sure that made it so much better.

Anyway. That long tangent is my way of explaining why I'm not using the straight-up swear word in the title of my post. I just couldn't get around it. Half-bum is my style of cooking. Just ask my husband. I spent the first year of our marriage trying to deliver him the gourmet meals he was used to from his parents, but then I sort of gave up. Why spend 2 hours on something that is going to be eaten in about 10 minutes? I try to step things up a little bit when he's home, but for the most part, JC and I eat lots of breakfast foods, PB&J's, casseroles, and leftovers.

I do not claim to be any sort of good cook, food blogger, or food photographer (this will become obvious when you look at the photos). Most of the time, the stuff I turn out looks like the devil's vomit but I just roll with it and somehow I've managed to keep myself and my son alive. Miraculous, considering I've never fed my child a meal separated into an ice cube tray, a hot dog shaped like an octopus,  homemade fruit leather, apples that look like teeth, or any number of Barefoot Contessa recipes that require you to hike the Andes for fresh Chilean goat milk and then make your own cheese out of it, or whatever. I have better things to do, like recount my childhood malediction stories to the internet.
So here's the recipe. Simple:

You start with frozen dinner rolls. Thaw according to the package directions, then flatten them with a rolling pin (or your fingers; we're half-bumming this). Then bake the flattened rolls at 350 degrees for 10 minutes.

Grab a can of plain ole tomato sauce out of your pantry. Spread a spoonful on your half-baked pizza dough.

Sprinkle some Italian seasoning on it, for flavor. Don't be like the lunch ladies at my high school. A little basil won't kill you.

Then add some shredded Mozzarella.

 Also something I half-bum do: Scrubbing my pans.

Put your toppings on. I used chopped mushrooms, green peppers, red onion, olives, and pepperoni.
If I'd had any alfredo sauce, I would've used that in place of the tomato sauce and put some chicken on instead of the pepperoni. But I didn't have any, so I didn't do that. But you totally could if you wanted.

Bake them for 10 or 15 more minutes. Don't worry if some of the toppings slide off. Just scoop them back on with a spatula, like I did. Your stomach will never know.

Here's my "final product" which apparently you're supposed to show when you do a cooking blog post. You're also supposed to photograph them with a real camera rather than your iPhone, on a white plate, in natural light. My philosophy: Stop worrying so much about "supposed to," except for the important stuff of course.

Note: The side dish that looks like something a cat puked up 3 weeks ago is actually a pretty good and pretty healthy Greek quinoa salad, which you can find the recipe for here. I know it's not the same ethnic cuisine as pizza, but I had leftovers and I wanted some. Sue me.