I grew up with chickens. When I was in kindergarten, we had some (one or two...I don't remember how many) that lived in a pen in our front yard. These were the brief days we lived in Sterling City, TX in a mobile home. Clerks who called me "Heidi", Reagan getting shot, a grasshopper plague, and those damn chickens, these are the things I remember.
Walking outside in my long, flannel nightgown without shoes when feeding the chickens was a mistake. They pecked my toes, and I hated those chickens. It's nice to type this while sitting by my mom because she can fill in the gaps in my memory. Evidently these were baby chicks we received for Easter some months before.
Not that the two are connected, but I can't write about where to find the best fried chicken because I don't really care for fried chicken. Blame a toe-pecking pet. Blame the fact that I don't like eating meat served in its original form. Either way, I'm leaving this one to my resident southerners.
No comments:
Post a Comment