In these frigid temps a couple people have been inquiring as to how the chickens are doing. And by a couple people I mean my husband and I. Seriously, how are they doing and are they alive.
So I ventured out into the polar vortex to say hi to the ladies. My husband has taken on the brunt of the chicken duties, bless his heart, which are relatively few but doing anything in -15 degree weather is a Chore and don't I know it.
^The extension cord attaches to the water heater that my husband MacGyver-ed out of a lightbulb and a tin can. That way their water doesn't freeze into a block of ice, which is apparently unfavorable because they have not yet learned to make ice sculptures with their beaks.
Snack time. That's Hermione's game face.
On the menu: ends of the bread loaf, carrot peels, apple cores, seeds from the inside of a red pepper, the leftover bits at the bottom of the cereal bag
Tough little birds. One of them (I'm assuming Ginny) even squeaked out a frosty egg a few weeks ago, something they haven't done since they started molting in the fall (which was quite confusing to us as new chicken parents who had not even gotten past chapter 1 in the chicken handbook, what with feathers strewn all over the yard and what not. I vaaaaguely recall what molting is because I believe it was referenced by Iago the parrot in Aladdin. )
I was going to type up my recipe for the Easiest Crock Pot Meal of All Time, aka pulled chicken tacos, but they call for frozen chicken breasts... and well, you know. Too close for comfort.
Speaking of too close for comfort, as a former ER nurse, I'll let this article from Slate speak for itself - "OK America, You Can Stop Throwing Pots of Boiling Water Into the Air Now."
Stay warm, chickadees.
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