by Christine Adams Beckett
I repost the story of one of our very social neighbors, Georgia the Polish crested hen, who sadly passed this week. She (and her savory eggs!) will be sorely missed.
Last April, while playing with my kids in our backyard, we were visited by a strutting chicken wearing what appeared to be an afro of feathers. In the middle of suburbia, this was a tad unusual, even with the ever-increasing sensitivity to Michael Pollan-inspired ethical eating in our very liberal-minded Montclair. By some strike of extremely good fortune, the Pooch was not outside when our visitor arrived, but her keen canine sensibilities were ignited. Flinging herself at the back door, fearfully close to breaking her neck on one of the glass panes, she whined as if in physical pain.
The inevitable followed: “PLEASE, Mommy, can we keep it?” A simple point in the general direction of the convulsing animal trying her best to break our door down was answer enough. Half the occupants in our house don’t even like eggs without a mound of cottage cheese to mask their existence…
View original post 410 more words