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.

This quick chicken fricassee is a perfect lazy night’s cook up.  Boneless, skinless chicken thighs are rich and ready quickly, and the sauce is three simple ingredients: white wine, briny olives, and the best cherry tomatoes you can find.  By the time they simmer down to a pan sauce, the chicken thighs are fall-apart tender and full of flavor.  Serve it over a few new potatoes, smashed on a plate.

A Guest Post by my Honey Girl

From the way my mom has taught me and talked to me about baking, I know each of her meals and after school treats for us were made with love. My mom’s cooking is one way that she cares for us everyday. She’s always said that you can taste the difference if you cook angrily, and that she believes her food tastes tired if she feels tired. And as corny as it sounds, I think she is right. Each dough she kneads and vegetable she chops is given what our family calls a “love infusion.” And ever since I was a little girl when we get sick we request chicken and dumpling soup. Years later, mom’s signal to start plucking a chicken and chopping up carrots is a sniffle. Just recently I woke up while I was home over break with a cold and mom made me her magic soup. After spending months away at college little things like showering without flip-flops and having socks magically appear clean and folded in my room are just few of the comforts of home I miss. But these daily comforts pale in comparison to the feeling of being cared for by your mom when sick. Finishing off a bowl of chicken and dumpling soup makes all the difference and is one such meal where the love in her food is almost palpable. My Norweigan great grandfather made this soup for my mother, she made it for me and for my brother, and some day I hope to make it for my little ones when they are sick.

I realized about two weeks ago that I was spent. Sack of bones tired. Slug paced. Work weary. So, in the spirit of honoring one of my New Year’s resolutions, I took a break. My new computer conspired in the matter by spending two weeks in and out of the Apple hospital. And I dropped everything. Literally plopped down intent on doing nothing but resting. It was uncomfortable. My 18-page list disturbed my thoughts. All of my must-dos crept into moments that were supposed to be quiet. And then I sank in. And slept. And slept some more. And slept some more. I slept for a week, really. I realized how deeply exhausted I was and wondered how it was possible to sleep so much and still feel tired. And then a spark grew and I realized that I was actually feeling inspired and alert again, something which, after more than a year of grueling work hours, I had nearly forgotten. I’m ready for more 20-hour days again. But I’m excited about them. And about another year of days from which I’ll squeeze everything possible and sign my name to happily as I go to sleep.

My freezer, and perhaps yours, has become a bit bare in the last few months. So today I am making chicken stock and, with the birds from my brother-in-law’s early winter hunt, a pheasant stock, too. Stock seems to be intimidating to many cooks. But it’s so much easier than so many other things. You don’t need to peel or chop vegetables, really. You just plop some birds and some aromatics into water and let them burble away over a low flame. A little skimming here and there is the only work required. And if you can drain pasta, you can finish stock. I think homemade stock is transformative in cooking. It will elevate everything you cook with it. Set aside a Saturday when you’ll be home for a few hours, and make a pot. Perhaps even take a nap while it cooks.