Chick-fil-A Story from Jay's Point of View

Women are like elephants. They remember everything. If it seems like they forgot something, it's because they're using selective recall. But it's all in there. And the minute a memory becomes useful, it's instantly retrieved.

Instantly.

Everything.

Trust me.

When we were first married, Pamela put on a new outfit and asked how it looked from behind. I meant to disparage the outfit, not her. Or her behind. I'm actually very fond of her behind. Unfortunately, my flippant remark came out wrong. Really wrong. My attempt to fix it made things worse.

"Darling," she interrupted me in a low, deadly voice, "let me enlighten you. When a woman asks how she looks, there are two answers. And only two. Number one is 'You look fabulous.' Number two is 'You're beautiful, and that outfit does not do you justice.' Understand?"
 

"Yes. I totally understand. And I'm really sorry for what I said."

She relaxed, sheathing her claws. Looking back in the mirror, she shrugged, "Wide, horizontal stripes aren't very flattering, but it was on sale, so I thought I'd give it a shot."

I was relieved she'd moved on so quickly and naively put the incident behind me. 

But women remember everything.

I'd been studying for the Fire Department Captain's Test. Pamela was great--quizzing me, making up study sheets, organizing my notes, encouraging me, and doing anything she could to make the process easier. But I still spent too much time worrying and began to take my angst out on her.

Which was not acceptable.

Like she told me on our honeymoon when I grumbled about a headache, "Jay, I've been in pain for years but don't take it out on you. If I'm gracious while enduring chronic pain, then you are certainly capable of being congenial with merely a headache."

My first thought was, Who uses 'congenial' in normal conversation? but quickly changed it to, "You're right. You're really good about that. Sorry."

So I knew she would eventually stop tolerating my moodiness over this test, and it happened on the night a Fire Captain offered to give me some study tips.

I picked Pamela up after my shift and headed to his station. I hadn't eaten, but I refused to stop for dinner because I was stressed and grumpy and wanted to stay that way. That was my first mistake. I could tell she didn't appreciate my behavior because she sounds like a Thesaurus when she's restraining her temper. A soft remark of "Jay, you're being decidedly churlish," is a screaming warning to back off.

And find a Dictionary to look up the word "churlish."

When we arrived at the Fire Station, someone was already in the Captain's office. Pamela suggested that I ask how much longer his meeting would take. I snubbed her. That was my second mistake.

So, she promptly knocked on the door, poked her head around it, and said, charmingly. "Hey, y'all! I'm Jay's wife. Just letting you know we're here. And I'm wondering if you're going to finish soon or if we have time to run to Chick-fil-A."

The Captain answered, "Oh, go get food. Take your time."

"Thanks! Can we bring anything back for you? No? Well, then, we'll be back in a jiffy," she gushed. She raised one eyebrow at me as she sashayed outside.

The success of her audacity irritated me, so I pouted (in a manly way) on the drive to the restaurant. My third mistake. 

She quoted, mildly, "'You reap what you sow.'" 

Fine, I thought, I don't care if you're in a bad mood, too, foolishly forgetting that my wife, on principle, will not allow anyone determine her mood. She often says, "I refuse to have a bad day just because someone is pandering to their worst emotion." 

She wasn't interested in absorbing my misery. 

Oh, she had something much better in mind.

Chick-fil-A was packed. When we finally got to the front of the line, I irritably gave my order. The harried youth behind the counter didn't even look up as he asked Pamela, in monotone, "And what can I get for you this evening." 

Instead of admitting she'd already had dinner, my dear wife answered, in a clear voice, "Oh, I can't get anything." She nodded towards me as she sweetly added, apologetically, "He thinks I look fat."

The crowded room instantly silenced. Instantly. The kid's head jerked up in horror. The restaurant workers stared at me in open-mouthed shock. The other customers gasped or sneered.

Panicked, I babbled, loudly, "No, I don't think that! She can get anything she wants! Pamela, you can eat anything you want!"

To deliberately make things worse, she turned to me, with wide eyes, and cooed, "Oh! I can? I really can get anything I want? Oh, thank you, honey! Thank you!" which made the Marine in the line next to us clench his fist and tighten his jaw.

I was red, sweating, and had no idea how to alter the situation. "Of course you can get anything you want! You can eat anything!" I protested.

Clearly enjoying herself, Pamela gave me a look of profound gratitude as she said, "I'm just going to get a small cone." Her voice trembled, hesitantly, "Is that okay?"

I knew she was shamming, but with everyone glaring at me, my only option was to desperately repeat, "Yes, it's okay! Of course, it's okay! Get anything you want!

"I'll just have a small cone," she told the teen behind the counter who couldn't stop staring at me with undisguised disgust. "And, honey," she turned back, anxiously, "I'm only going to eat the ice cream part. Not the cone part."

"Eat any part you want!"

"Thank you. You're very good to me," she beamed.

The kid clenched my chicken sandwich in his fist as he jammed it on top of the fries and nearly threw the bag at me. Pamela happily took her cone and thanked the young man. I ducked my head and fled the hostile crowd while she meandered to the door. 

But once we were in the dark parking lot, she urgently whispered, "We better run or you might get jumped." I peeled out of the lot before the vehicle doors were even shut.

"Why would you do that to me?" I yelped.

She smiled, unrepentantly.

"When did I ever say you were fat?"

"You implied I looked fat when you made the comment about that striped outfit," she answered, primly, licking her ice cream. "It wasn't very nice of you."

"That was months ago! I didn't mean it that way. And I said I was sorry!" 

"You reap what you sow," she shrugged. "It's Biblical. You can't argue with the Bible."

"And what about lying? What does the Bible say about lying?"

"I did not lie," she answered, indignantly. "You did make an unfortunate remark about my figure in that outfit. And I agreed that you would let me eat anything. And I am only going to eat the ice cream; I hate this kind of cone. Name one thing I said that wasn't true."

I couldn't, so I asked, again, "Why would you do something like that to me?"

She patted my knee, affectionately, "I just did what I had to do. To help you, honey."

"What you had to do? To help me?"

"Yes, darling. You're too uptight about this Captain's test, and you've been taking it out on me. Talking to you about it didn't help, so I got creative."

"You got creative?"

She added, cheerfully, "And it worked!"

"It worked?" 

She nodded with satisfaction as we pulled into the Fire Station. "Yes. I'm quite sure you didn't think about the test once. And I'm equally sure that you will stop indulging your grumpy moods. See? Worked!"

I was speechless.

"And I, for one," she remarked as she exited the truck while handing me her empty cone, "am in a much better mood. I feel positively congenial."

Verse of the day: (Galatians 6:7b) "Do not be deceived: God is not mocked. A man reaps what he sows."

To read the terrible thing Pamela did to our pastor, read Mare's Milk, Anyone? To read how she pranked one of my firefighters, read Firefighter Funny.  

Does Goofy Count?

This is The Pirate's House in Savannah where men were plied with drugged rum
and shanghaied in the 1700s. I'm little, but I figured I could still shanghai Jay.

In the previous post I related how Jay gave me a beautiful anniversary card...without writing my name in it or signing it. Well, God bless him, his romantic attempts weren't any more successful when Valentine's Day rolled around a few days later.

We were at a Bed & Breakfast in Savannah. In our room, I found a book called Of Love and War which is comprised of 250 years of wartime love letters. Hoping for some romance, I asked Jay to read me one. Instead, he picked up a framed copy of the extremely long obituary of Robert E. Lee that dryly listed his every military victory, failure, and accomplishment in great detail. 

Swoon.

What woman doesn't want to hear an obituary read to her on Valentine's Day?

I checked Facebook posts while Jay droned on, but said, "Wow. Really?" or "I didn't know that!" (a safe assumption) every time Jay paused, because that's the sacrifice a wife makes for her husband after 10 years of marriage.

He finally sat down and rifled through the book of love letters. After a few minutes, I asked him, again, to read me something. Something romantic. It's not like I expect the man to write me a love letter, but I figured he could certainly read me one. Instead, he scanned the blubs on the side of each entry that gave information about the letter writers. 

Jay (seriously): Okay,  here's something.

Me (breathless in anticipation): Oh, good.

Jay: This is about the conditions during WWII blackouts in London. A nurse wrote, 'We have to feed our patients onions to find them in the dark.'

Me (laughing): That is what you choose to read to your wife for Valentine's Day? You romantic, you! By the way, honey, if you're trying to justify why you eat so much garlic, I'd rather put a nightlight in our room.

He (unconvinced): Well, I guess that's another option.

Me (nabbing the book): This is a letter Alexander Hamilton wrote to his wife during the Revolutionary War. 'I cannot announce the fatal necessity (of being moved further away) without feeling everything that a fond husband can feel. I am unhappy; I am unhappy beyond expression. I am unhappy because I am to be so remote from you; because I am to hear from you less frequently than I am accustomed to do. I am miserable because I know you will be so; I am wretched at the idea of flying so far from you, without a single hour's interview to tell you all my pains and my love.' (Handing the book back to Jay) Now that is romantic.

He (protesting): Read the history blurb on the side. He died in a duel and left her penniless with seven kids. (Shaking his head in disgust) The knucklehead.

Me (giggling): OK, I'll give you that one. Romantic men aren't always practical.  

Short pause, as he continues flipping through the book.

Me (coaxing): Come on. Read me one of the letters, honey.

He: 'Dearest Darling Wife, yadda, yadda, yadda, Christmas, yadda, yadda, yadda, miss you, yadda, yadda...'

Me (snickering): Did you just say, 'Yadda, yadda'? 

He (sincerely): Yeah. But here's an interesting part. 'Now about the house you were talking about. I wish you could wait a few more months before you did make a decision.' I can't figure out why he wanted her to wait and couldn't just let her buy the house if she wanted a house!   

Me (rolling my eyes): Yes, honey, I'm sure that was the point of the letter.  Give me that book; I want to read what you consider 'yadda, yadda.'

He:  Fine. Here.

Me:  OK, the letter really reads, 'Dearest Darling Wife, You and the kids are all I worry (about) & would do anything in the whole world for. As I told you before, darling, we will live in a little world of our own when I get back. I am glad everything is fixed for Christmas. I would have loved more than anything in the world, besides being there, to have bought gifts for all of you, but it's an impossible thing to do over here, sugar.'

He (shrugging):  Like I said, 'Yadda, yadda, yadda.'

Shaking my head in amusement. Short pause as I peruse the letter again.

Me (thoughtfully):  Darling, you know what I like best about this letter?

He: What?

Me:  That this man actually wrote his wife's name on it. And he signed it before he sent it to her!

He (with a grin): What a show off!

Verse of the Day: (I John 3:18) "Dear children, let's not merely say that we love each other; let us show the truth by our actions." Jay might not be able to write (or even read) me a love letter, but he, with husbandly intuition, knows that the true way to my heart is through chocolate.

Anniversary Anomaly

Jay is not like the husband of one of my Facebook friends who surprised his wife with a scavenger hunt on their anniversary. He put gorgeous signs around the city at personal landmarks: the restaurant of their first date, where he proposed, the church in which they were married, their first house, and so on. I browse through their on-line photo album and think, "Awwww, that's so sweet," while knowing that the day before our anniversary Jay will say something like, "Um, baby, can you order yourself a gift card from Christianbook.com and say it's from me?"

I honestly don't mind because I knew what he was like before I said my vows. To be disappointed about it after marriage would be incredibly unfair of me. I usually tell him to get me a card. And sometimes he even remembers! Gifts aren't a deal breaker for me.

To his credit, occasionally he surprises me. I was recently out of town for a week, and he sweetly met me at the airport with a dozen roses.

Of course, that was motivated by a burst of gratitude that he'd no longer have to eat his own cooking. He thinks he's on Chopped and makes things like mustard and jelly sandwiches or steak covered in lemon juice, which taste even more disgusting than they sound. (If you've read Delectable Disagreement, then you know his fascination with "creative" cooking. If I'm not home to give him real food, then he has to actually eat his inventions.)

I was pleased with the flowers just the same.

Last year, in early February, we celebrated our 10th Wedding Anniversary.

Jay put forth unusual effort and surprised me with an Anniversary card! He smiled proudly as he handed me the slim bag.

Jay: I didn't forget to get you a card this year!

Me (gushing): That's so sweet! And it's beautiful, darling.
 
Jay (strutting around the room): I know.
 
I open and read the card.

Me: Thank you so much, honey.

Jay (trying to look humble): You're welcome, sweet pea.

Long pause.

Me: Um, sweetie?
 
Jay: Yeah?
 
Me: Um, it's a really lovely card and all...
 
Jay: Yeah?

Me: And I don't mean to sound ungrateful...

Jay: Yeah?

Me: ...but it will probably be more meaningful if you'd write my name in it...
 
Jay: I didn't put your name in it?
 
Me: ...and if you'd sign it.
 
Jay: I didn't sign it?
 
Me: You handed me the bag from the grocery store with a receipt and blank card in it.

Verse of the day: (Zech 4:10) "Do not despise these small beginnings , for the LORD rejoices to see the work begin..." It may not be a city-wide scavenger hunt, but I love that he made an effort.

Disclaimer: As always, posted with Jay's laughing approval. He figures it might get a few other less-than-romantic dudes off the gift-and-card hook with their wives or girlfriends.

To read about my card fail, check out My Funny Felon Bride.

For a story about one of Jay's creative cooking attempts, check out Delectable Disagreement.

Our A-bomb-inable Trip Home

I try to be a good wife. I really do. Sadly, Jay doesn't always appreciate my efforts to improve the quality of his life.

He agrees that organically grown fruit and vegetables have more flavor. His palate can now tell the difference between a regular steak and a grass-fed steak*. He's learned to enjoy home-made kale chips instead of potato chips (I'm not kidding; he actually requests them.). He appreciates cleaning without chemicals (with water and a Norwex** cloth) and only uses natural bug sprays, weed-discouragers, and fertilizers.

But I haven't had any success converting him to my DIY dog shampoo. He says he can't tell if he misses a spot since it doesn't lather. (I tell him to just start at the nose and work his way down to the tail, and he should pretty much get it all.)

And one auspicious day he became instantly and permanently repelled by my homemade body oil.

But that wasn't my fault!

I mean, kind of not my fault.

For a long time I'd been experimenting with my own blend of organic sweet almond oil, jojoba oil, vitamin E oil, essential oils, and vegetable glycerin to make an all-natural skin moisturizer. It worked great, but I had to keep reminding Jay to shake the bottle before using it. Otherwise, we'd be left with only the heavy vegetable glycerin that regularly sunk to the bottom.

I packed a bottle of this exquisite ointment when we visited my family in low-humidity Arizona last year. Jay seemed to appreciate my thoughtfulness because by the end of the trip, we only had a few precious drops left. We slathered it on before we said our good-byes and left for the airport.

Trips are physically difficult for me, so I usually need to use a wheelchair in airports. At security checkpoints, I'm often given a quick pat down, especially since I travel with Caleb, my medical alert dog. This time, they also swabbed my hands.

My swab set off the alarm. I was a little surprised by that.

The TSA agents asked me which carry-on items were mine. Unconcerned, I pointed to Jay and said, "Oh, my husband has them."

They politely asked him to step out of the line with our things and swabbed his hands, too.

To our shock, his swab also set off the alarm!

We were immediately surrounded by security guards on high alert. They dragged us, separately, into private rooms to be searched while other TSA agents combed through our luggage looking for bombs or bomb-making substances.

That's when it hit me: what is a main component of the highly-volatile explosive, TNT? Otherwise known as nitroglycerin?

Oops!

Yes, we were thoroughly searched in the airport for bombs because of the glycerin dregs of my homemade body oil.

At least life with me is never boring!

Verse of the day: (Psalm 23:5) "You prepare a feast for me in the presence of my enemies. You honor me by anointing my head with oil." I told Jay that I was honoring him when I anointed his hands with oil before we left for the airport. I'm not sure what exactly happened while he was being searched, but he vehemently disagrees.


To read another travel story, click on "Preplanned" Packing. 
To read about more of homesteading hazards, click here.


*For my Charlotte readers, we get our beef from www.grassfedmoo.com
**We're obsessed with Norwex antibacterial cleaning cloths. Not only are they free of chemicals and toxins, but they make cleaning incredibly easy. If you'd like more info, Cheryl at www.downrightclean.com or Linda at http://lindadejeu.norwex.biz can answer your questions.

Bald Peanuts

I've learned a lot after moving to the South. Mainly, that the people here have their own language, and it only slightly resembles English. Case in point:

Walking past a goober shack:
 
Southern Bubba (calling out): Hey, missy. Jew want sum bald pea-a-nuts?

Me (turning to Jay, whispering): Why does he think I'm Jewish?

Jay (absently): Jewish? What are you talking about?

Me: He said, 'Jew, want some bald peanuts?'

Jay: He meant, 'Do you want some bald peanuts.'

Me: Are the words 'do' and 'you' really too difficult to say?

Jay: That's how they talk down here. So, d'ya want to try some bald peanuts? They're kind of an acquired taste.

Me: Weird. I thought all peanuts were bald.

Jay: No, they come a lot of different ways.

Me (fascinated and a bit scared): All the peanuts I've ever eaten were bald, so I should probably be brave and try the hairy ones; just to say that I did. Can we buy them here?

Jay: Hairy what?

Me: Hairy peanuts.

Jay: What are you talking about?

Me: Hairy peanuts. Or unshaved peanuts. Or whatever they call non-bald peanuts.

Jay (smirking): They're boiled peanuts.

Me: They boil the hair off?

Jay: There is no hair.

Me: Well, then, I mean the peanut fuzz or the peanut fur.

Jay (snickering): There isn't any hair, fuzz, or fur on peanuts.

Me (exasperated): Well, whatever you call the stuff that's being boiled off of them so that they become bald peanuts.

Jay (laughing): There isn't anything to be boiled off. We're not saying bald; that's how they pronounce boiled down here. The guy asked if you wanted some boiled peanuts.

Me: No, he didn't. He said bald. (Turning to the man) Excuse me, sir? What kind of peanuts did you say you had?

Southerner: I got me sum bald pea-a-nuts here. Jew want sum?

Me (triumphantly to Jay): See!

Jay (almost on the ground from laughing so hard): Youhashodkha!

Me: Quit laughing, and make some sense.

Jay (still gasping): Hey, sir, you mind explaining to my wife how y'all fix the peanuts?

Southerner (taking five minutes to scratch his head and hitch up his pants): Wall, fist they need soaked. We soak them there pea-a-nuts in cold wattah fer 'bout an ar. Then we het up a pot of wattah 'til it be ba-eling. Then we throw salt an' a mess o' pea-a-nuts and ba-el it fer 'bout fer ars. That there's how we fix us sum bald pea-a-nuts.

Me: So, the peanuts aren't hairy or furry before they hit the boiling water?

Southerner (looking at Jay as if I'm drunk on moonshine): Ma'am? What chew talkin' 'bout?

Me (meekly): Never mind. I'll have some 'bald pea-a-nuts,' please.

Verse of the day:  (Job 2:10) “Should we accept only good things from the hand of God and never anything bad?" Well, I'll accept anything from the hand of God, but a boiled peanut (shaved or unshaved) from the hand of Jay is something I now know to strenuously avoid. Acquired taste? Yeah, no, I don't see why anyone would want to acquire it.

To read why Southerners move at a much slower pace than the rest of the world, click here.

Hen Hazards (by Pammy Mae)

If you're considering getting backyard chickens, don't. Just don't. Yes, our Golden Comet biddies are friendly and sweet. Yes, it warms my heart when they happily follow me around the yard because they want a cuddle. Yes, I love the fresh, organic eggs they graciously provide.

The problem is not the hens, my friends. The problem is the greased slope you will find yourself sliding down with no hope of recovery short of hitting Homestead Rehab.

Here is the sad story of what happened after we brought home backyard biddies:

First, we began composting. It seemed like a trendy, "green" thing to do. We dutifully toted food scraps, leaves, and yard clippings to the far corner of our property to decompose and produce earthworms.

Yes, I encouraged decomposition and worm breeding in my yard.

I'm in shock, too. Keep reading.

It became such an obsession that when we passed a building site with felled trees on a field that had been vacant since the Civil War (which means it was chemical-free), I screeched, "Jay! Organic matter for the compost pile!" as he swerved off the road and stripped the brake pads. (To be honest, I'm not sure if the swerve was in thankful agreement of my helpful observation or if my shriek momentarily scared the sense out of him.) The construction crew politely tried to hide their snickers as they watched my husband do their job of hauling away piles of wood chips. 

Jay even bought manure from a man who raises organic, grassfed cows to add to our compost pile. He (Jay, not the cowman) washed the bed of the pickup truck six times after the cow poo was unloaded, but it was months before I'd ride in the cab because of the lingering smell wafting up from the back.

The next logical step was to create a raised garden bed. What else were we going to do with all that compost? And it seemed harmless enough. We made a raised vegetable bed (because you don't have to weed it) thirty-four feet long and four feet wide. To grow food for two people.  

Yes, I said two people. 

By God's grace, some of the vegetables actually liked our compost swill! (I mean, organic soil.) Only half of the GMO-free seeds we sowed actually sprouted, but I was absurdly proud of the abundance we received from the plants with an unusually strong will-to-live. 

Once I realized that our neighbors were hiding when I bounced up their porch steps with armfuls of produce, I figured out how to use a dehydrator. I dried enough kale and basil to last at least 15 years. I may put some of it in little linen bags to hand out at Christmas as "potpourri."

By this time, my husband and I often found ourselves chewing toothpicks and inexplicably referring to each other as "Jay Bob" and "Pammy Mae." It just sounded right.

Before backyard hens

After backyard hens

One morning, while eating some of our biddies' orange-yolked, super-vitamin-charged, free-range eggs, I thought, Fresh bread would taste good with this. So, I began making bread. From scratch. Yes, me. Stop laughing because it gets worse. Then I thought, Organic eggs eaten with non-organic bread just isn't right, so I began ordering GMO-free flour from a local farm.

One night, when I was exhausted from making 137 cups of organic pesto to freeze for the winter (okay, that's a slight exaggeration, but it felt like 137 cups), I accidentally ordered wheat berries instead of wheat flour. Instead of returning it, I thought, Hey, I could grind this into flour myself! It will be cheaper, and the bread will taste even more fresh.  

I discovered that a good flour mill costs $250-350, and since I'm not baking for a family of twelve, I couldn't justify the cost. Which means that I milled the wheat berries in our little coffee grinder. How did this work, you wonder? Well, I could only grind 1/3rd of a cup at a time. Then I had to let the coffee grinder sit for 10 minutes to cool off. So, it took about 3 hours to mill enough wheat into flour for a few loaves. And then I still had to make the bread! 

But am I still doing it? Of course. It's a backyard-chicken-owning thing to do.

Now I'm begging Jay for a goat. Yes, a goat. Goat's milk is rich in vitamins and contains more protein than cow's milk. As if our diet lacks protein. Its calcium can be absorbed through skin to help maintain a natural pH balance. My arguments run along the lines of, "But, Jay Bob, I could make goat milk moisturizer. And goat milk shampoo. And goat milk conditioner. And goat milk cheese!" 

Model: Leroy
Photo credit: Troy Leslie, goatman

Can you see me milking a goat? 

Me, neither. 

And yet, my brain keeps telling me that I need one.

Jay has been the voice of reason rejecting my pleas for a goat. Only because he'd rather have bees.  

Now I'm thinking about making my own soap. Why? Don't ask me; ask the chickens. They started this. One of the ingredients of homemade soap is lye. I discovered you can actually buy lye on Amazon.com. Yes, lye. That I understand, from reading Little House on the Prairie, is made from ashes and animal lard. You heard me right. Ashes and lard! Who is making lye to sell on Amazon?

And why would I buy their lye when I could probably make it myself by rendering fat and collecting ashes the next time we barbeque steak? (Oh, please stage an intervention before I try this!)

Yesterday, I found myself reading about how to make herbal tincture. I don't even know how to pronounce "tincture" let alone know why I'd need some. But I read the recipe with enthusiasm, thinking, Hey, I have some of these ingredients. I bet I could make this! 

Any day now, I expect to look in our backyard and see Ma and Pa resting by their covered wagon wrapped in a quilt (sewed with cloth woven from my organic cotton), eating pone that I made for supper by grinding organic corn into meal between two rocks (and cooked in the fireplace--so I could save the ashes for lye, of course), and waiting for me to bring homemade lineament to ease the ache in their rheumatic joints.

Yes, this post is a desperate cry for help.

Verse of the day: (Proverbs 12:11) "A hard worker has plenty of food, but a person who chases fantasies has no sense." And those who are a weird combination of the two will find themselves, surrounded by stacks of dehydrating zucchini chips, rendering lard and fermenting herbal tinctures.

Follow up: Two people took pity on me and gave me a real flour mill for Christmas. The lovely and gracious people at www.pleasanthillgrain.com (awesome customer service!) let me return one, so I exchanged it for a Bosch Compact Mixer. I'm giddy! Possibly from excitement but more likely from motion sickness as I plunge further down the homesteading circular slide.

For two other stories involving chickens, see "Daylight Nightlight" and "Happy Chicken Lady Day."