Here is Edna, an Australorpe, the littlest, the feistiest, capital squawker and pecker. Within minutes of reaching the brooder, and despite the fact that she is roughly half the size of her week-older counterparts, she was putting them all in line, hand on proverbial hip.  She has a no-nonsense matronly gate, and is the kind of chick that you can picture in her dotage even as she is an irresistible bit of fluff.  She is named for Edna Lewis, renowned traditional Southern cook.

Here is Edith, an Americauna, a veritable warbler, our little songstress.  She moon walks when she gets to scratching, and prefers to scoot over walking, creeping along on her belly.  She is named for Edith Piaf, famed French warbler.  They sound rather alarmingly alike.  She pecks the hardest, too; sometimes I think she’ll peck a hole in the feeder, but she is gentle with the others and with me.  I can hear her from my desk, “thunk, thunk,” as she pecks at the bottom of the bathtub, and “weeoo, weeoo, weeoo,” as she sings.  She will lay blue green eggs one day.

Here is Florence, a Rhode Island Red, curious, alert, and the flock’s sounder of alarm.  She’s stirring up one of her usual kerfuffles here.  This morning she was so determined to see outside the brooder that, craning up and back, she fell backwards repeatedly.  When we introduced new chicks to the flock, she PEEP peep peep peep peeped until Beatrice and Edith joined her as far away from them as possible.  She’s also our flyer, the first to explore her wings; she sets off quite a commotion every time she decides to try her hand at flight in such a small space.  Florence is named for Florence Reichtzigel, the retired farmer who first taught me about canning and preserving when I was a girl.

Here is Beatrice, a White Plymouth Rock.  Our former Bossy Betty has mellowed into one of the calmest and most docile of the chicks.  Beatrice is named for Beatrice Ojakangas, Minnesota cookbook author specializing in Scandinavian cooking and baking.  She has beautiful white hair; Beatrice’s butter yellow fluff will be replaced soon by snow white feathers.  She is happy now to be held and sung to.  She also seems to be the most aware of humans, though quite calm about our presence.  She hates, hates, hates, though, to have her bedding material changed.  Oh my goodness, is that a trauma!  Poor, Beatrice.

And here is Clementine, little Clementine, an Australorpe.  Agreeable, quiet, and serene, with bright eyes and a steadiness about her.  She won’t be bullied, but she also won’t push anyone from her spot at the feeder, and almost nothing unsettles her.  Clementine is named for the sweet cook in Samuel Chamberlain’s Clementine in the Kitchen, my favorite food memoir.  Unruffled, cheerful, and ever sweet.

We had a sixth chick, but we lost Alice, an Americauna, when she was four days old.  She was named for Alice Waters, American local food champion and restauranteur, and she was my favorite, the Audrey Hepburn of chicks, with big, beautiful eyes and a serene character.  She is buried now beneath a tree.

The chicks have brought us so much pleasure in two short weeks.  In some ways I feel like a new mother again, discovering their personalities, unsure of myself when Alice was sick and then dying, dedicated to their care, learning every day, and celebrating their small milestones. The mundane and routine can be quite exciting when new.  I could sit at the brooder watching them for long hours had I the time.  There is also something about observing a creature related to the most ancient creatures, the dinosaurs.  It roots us in and to a kind of ephemeral timeline, to history.  I’m so glad we’ve taken this little flock into our care for so many reasons, but mostly because they are a source of great joy.

A Guest Post by our Sweet Boy

My earliest memories are of my mom and I taking an ordinary trip to the Community Store for a little treat.   As we would walk in the store the owner and employees would all shout an “irashaimase” welcome.  I would shout back, and they would laugh, since irashaimase is something only shopkeepers say to customers entering their shops.  We were living in a run down apartment in the heart of Tokyo and doing it Japanese style.  Dad’s new job had brought us to this new and foreign place.  My parents had lived in Japan before, but it was my first time; I was two when we arrived.  Every day we would ride on the bike and drop my sister Sophia off at the Japanese public school she was attending, and then enjoy the rest of the day together the two of us.  We’d make a stop for onigiri rice balls and then stop by Mejiro Garden to eat and to clap for the carp, which lived in the ponds there.  I remember that part.  And I remember my blue futon and the dusty colored feral cats outside our apartment, with their torn fur.  We have photographs of me visiting various temples, the Daibutsu, markets, local festivals, but one of the only things I truly remember in Japan is the food, the tastes and the smells that have stayed with me, but not their locations or the activities that surrounded them.  On our trips to the Community Store I faced a number of choices overwhelming to a child.  What to choose?  I often picked the Badtz Maru and Kero Kero Keroppi gum and lollies.  Or there were the milk ice pops.  Nothing I have tasted since has ever compared to their flavor.  I also remember the Calpis drink my mother would make, milk protein concentrate mixed with water, and how I loved to eat sheets of dried seaweed so much that I could eat them by the bag.  And the osembe, rice crackers, wrapped in the same nori.   My family talks about hot yaki imo off trucks and kakigori ices on hot days, roasted ayu in the fall, and freshly made tofu.  But these are the things I remember.  After a long day, we would return to the apartment for what we hoped would be a peaceful night.  It wasn’t usually peaceful.  We could hear all of our neighbors and their living sounds, and the feral cats fighting in the street.  My dad would return in his suit and dress shoes.  Mr. Jeremy Fisher of Beatrix Potter’s Tales wore those, too, and I longed for a pair of these “Germany Fishers” and my own “Daddy coat”.  I think it’s interesting, though, that of all the sights and sounds of our life in Tokyo, my strongest memories are taste memories, tastes that indelibly belong to memory now.  The things I taste today are linked to those early taste memories, compared and stored for pleasure.

A guest post by my Sweet Boy

hristmas at home is a warm, happy time. My mom’s enthusiasm for elf culture kicks in around October, so by the time Halloween rolls around, the Christmas lists are complete and the baking is well on its way. Presents with no tree to be put under continue to be wrapped and it is only mid November.

A frenzy of baking: Christmas pudding, Spritz, Lebkuchen, sugar cookies, almond biscotti, Pfeffernusse with rum glaze, sables, ginger cookies, cream caramels, fudge with walnuts, dark chocolate caramels with smoked salt, cranberry pistachio cookies, Turkish delight, blueberry pear pate de fruits, chocolate lollipops, coconut macaroons, French-style chocolate macarons, gingerbread boys, raspberry hazelnut Linzer cookies, krumkake, Santa breads, and Stollen.

Finally, waiting. The days drag by. Then, a mountain of presents, a Christmas feast, a quiet night.

A guest post by my Sweet Boy

My sister’s lilting giggle.  My mom’s dry and low laugh.  Gasping in reverse.  And weeping. My laughter, too. Occasionally someone falls off a chair. It’s my Dad.  He makes us laugh every day.

My mom scolds. Wildly inappropriate. But she is laughing, too. We all are. Out of shock perhaps. Impersonations. Bits from television or movies. His own cast of characters. They appear and reappear. Over the top. In full character. A method comedian.

Guests come and they ask, is it always like this here? Do we laugh like this every night? Yes, we answer. And they look at us, sometimes with disbelief. I am sad for them. We are a family who love to laugh. We are all funny, but my dad is the star. A joke for everything. The quickest wit. Practical jokes.

One of his college classmates once spilled a pint of beer on himself when he fell for the donkey jaw joke. A classic. We all fall for it, too. We love the good jokes and the bad jokes.

My mom makes similar attempts, without success. She struggles to get through the joke, and is laughing before she gets to the end. We can appreciate her parodies of songs, though.  She’s more entertaining than funny.

My sister is funny, too. Her jokes are sinister. More mock scolding from Mom. Dad, proud. A daughter with a dark sense of humor, a British wit.

And me? I don’t know. I’m part of the scene. A bit like Mom, a bit like Dad. I suppose I’m playful.

It’s really Dad at the center. Center stage. Making us all laugh. A silly life. A happy life.

A guest post by my Sweet Boy

Now remember, Freddy, my mom says, little Cs.  I plunge the whisk into the bowl.  The eggs begin to foam, their yolks diffuse.  C…C…C.  I think I’m getting the hang of this.  C…C…C.  The eggs settle.  Great job, Freddy Bear, my mom chirps.  I flash a smile of genuine pride.  It’s my first time cooking.

My mom is, and will always be, infatuated with cooking.  She grew up watching Julia Child.  There is a stack of cookbooks alongside her bed.  As I make my way to my bedroom after a night of studying, I peek into her room and, as always, a cookbook is in her hands, a look of fascination across her face.  With her cooking, she keeps our family close and fills our house with joy.  Every night, a meal on the table and endless laughter.  We are brought together.  It is cooking that has done this, in part.

I come home.  The house smells good.  It always smells good.  A coconut cake.  A lamb stew.  Conversation over the counter.  I ask her, What are you making tonight, Mom?  There is always an answer.

I wake up years later.  Make myself eggs.  I hear her voice.  C…C…C.  Little Cs, Freddy.  Little Cs.