It's the Lucy show

No more avian suspense, folks.  I know that you've been waiting to hear the particulars...about the NEW GIRLS. 

Right.  Well, may I first point out that, understandably, it is an entirely different process to adopt two teenaged girls than it is to acquire four newly hatched infants.  Good grief!  When you add in that Fern and Betty are both molting and hideous, (and know it) and are deeply annoyed by pretty young things with intact feathers--well, my happy, peaceful little flock of biddies is a thing of the past.  The in-fighting and grumbling is hilarious, the eternal chasing and pecking of our littlest gal, Lucy, is not so entertaining.  Jason the--forgive me, Honey--sensitive rooster is having difficulty keeping the peace and has grown protective of Baby Girl, as he calls Miss Lucy.

Lucy is too busy running to pose for the camera often!

Lucy is the Welsummer, our very own little Dutch girl who will soon be laying us eggs with chocolate-brown shells.  While she isn't very flashy from a distance, her feathers are actually beautiful lacy variations on browns, orangey-tans, creams, and rusts which run around her body in bands of color.  The roosters of this breed are the archetypal rooster on the cornflakes box, with the truly snazzy iridescent plumage.

Lucy is younger than Ethel, and very decidedly at the bottom of the pecking order, due primarily to being physically smaller.  She is speedy and can corner on a dime, which probably infuriates the hefty bullies puffing along behind her.  She spends a lot of time alone, because that is easier than being chased, although that seems to be slowly changing the longer she is here.  She is also a talker.  You may recall that I have a soft spot for chickens who will talk to me.  [Oh, christ.  You may also recall that I really do try to remember that other people will be reading this, and therefore watch the crazy-chicken-lady talk.  Sheesh.]

Anyway, Lucy does not allow me to pick her up without a chase and/or panicky uproar during the day...but once I catch her (or at night when everyone is sleepy) she is very calm and curious and quietly has a lot to say.  I am accustomed to big heavy ladies, and she is still small and sleek.  Tucked under my arm, she tilts her head to look me in the eye and gives me soft little comments about what it is like to be Lucy.  Since she is picked on so thoroughly, we all have a bit of a soft spot for her.

Ethel is beautiful.  And plump.  Her breed is one of the classics in American backyards, the Barred Plymouth Rock or simply Barred Rock, with characteristic black and white horizontal pinstriping.  Her colors are striking, and she is wonderfully rounded and chubby--however, she also cracks me up because her red, regal comb flops over, strongly reminiscent of a beret, and gives her a very dashing, devil-may-care look that I don't think is terribly representative of her personality.  She did, however, manage to muscle her way onto the roost after only a few days of living here.  She is a different color variation on Fern's breed, and Fern--if you recall--is one big biddy.

Ethel and Roxie

I apologize about the blurry photos...but then again, with her thin stripes, even curvy Ethel is difficult to capture without enough of a blur to make you feel a seizure coming on:

 Sorry.  :)


Within a few days of joining the flock, Ethel started laying her big, pinkish-brown eggs, which are, not surprisingly, very similar to Fern's.  Ethel was also quick to start hanging out with the older ladies, since the brunt of the pecking-order-fallout seemed to be geared toward Lucy.  In hope of treats, Ethel will allow me to get much closer to her than Lucy does and can even be convinced to eat out of my hand.

The best time, with either of the new girls, is at bedtime.  Lucy really, really thinks that she should be allowed to sleep in the nest box, since the roost is a terrifying gauntlet of potential peckers.  I, however, am not convinced--the best way to keep a nest box clean (and therefore the eggs that follow) is to keep the gals from sleeping there.  Lots of...er...digestion happens while the girls are sleeping, if you catch my drift.  And so, when we lock up the flock, either Jason or I get the pleasure of snuggling little Lucy for a moment as we transfer her to the roost for the night.

Not only is the snuggling part fun, but the grousing and bitching from the roost after we smoosh Lucy in the middle of all the complaining feathers is completely hilarious.  We immediately rush over to turn out the light (which eliminates pecking, since they can't see) and usually stand there for a second to listen to everyone grumble and stamp around while they readjust on the roost, with an occasional rasping squawk for punctuation and emphasis.  Roxie, of course, is the loudest, but everyone is completely annoyed and sounds like they've been smoking for fifty years. 

Better than TV, folks, better than TV.

While I had read, prior to adopting older girls, that a young chicken who has been raised by a hen rather than a human will never be quite as trusting, it is far clearer when you witness it every day.  Lucy and Ethel and I are very aware of each other, careful around each other, and not lacking a degree of curiosity and intrigue regarding each other--but there is an insurmountable cautiousness to our interactions that is noticeably absent with the older girls.  While Betty may have no intention of letting me pick her up, this is based on her personal preference and will, not because she is fundamentally scared of me.  While there is definite fear evident in Lucy and Ethel, it is also interesting to me how quickly and completely they settle down in my arms.  My original gals will tolerate being held at length with far less grace, perhaps because they aren't living in fear of humanity.  Who truly understands the poultry psyche, I ask you?

Another factor in our changing flock is the reality that I have had significantly less time to just hang out with the gals since Lucy and Ethel have joined us. 

*sigh* 

This is both a symptom of cooler weather and working to juggle my new job while still teaching at the preschool garden and writing (ta da!) a book on backyard chickens.   Oh, and I still have those three short papers to turn in for school.  And Christmas to figure out, in Year Two of DIY.  Sorry, sorry.  Back to the point:  maybe the new girls and I just need a little more time to get to know each other.  [After all, the general gregariousness of the flock has declined without our chicken-human ambassador, Ramona--it must be said.  Sobered up, we have.]

In any case, we are all here together and ready for winter.  I've ordered a base heater for their galvanized waterer, although I imagine I will supplement just a little with the heat lamp still, on the worst of the bitter nights to come.  The coop has undergone its biannual clean-and-disinfect extravaganza, using a shovel, shop vac, and vinegar/hot water-wipe-down. 

The accumulated bedding, half composted already, is used as mulch for the garden beds next in rotation, and in the spring can be turned under the soil prior to planting if needed.  A 4-5" layer of clean straw is fluffed into place, and the cozy coop is ready.  I'll continue fluffing it, to sift the solid material to the bottom to start composting, and occasionally adding another layer of clean straw all winter, until it is close to 12" deep and a nicely insulating floor for the gals.  The deep litter method of bedding the ladies is a great way to manage your manure and fertilize your garden.

Another fun addition to our chicken routine has been the partnership we've struck up with one of my student's home brewing operations.  They needed a place for their boiled grains, after extracting what they need for superior beer...and my ladies are mighty partial to any sort of carbohydrate, if you recall.  Bliss ensues.  Recycling at its finest!

Frederick the mouse

It is that time of year again.  I feel compelled to emotionally gird my loins.  Or something like that.

(I'll get to Lucy & Ethel, the new girls, in the next post. Promise.)

I have a strange relationship to Fall.  I've decided to embrace this rather than feeling guilt or regret about it.  It is undeniably gorgeous outside, and I love the richness of the world, in color and tone, in heavy seedheads and reckless jumble of garden, in the luxurious, golden, and somehow mellowed quality of the sunlight.  I recently drove up to visit my parents, which is a two-hour trip by highway and is one of the most boring stretches of Indiana imaginable (!)--but this time, we zipped through a blurred tapestry of magnificent texture and brilliant, brilliant colors. Everything everywhere was ripe and full, and for that length of time I could forget my beef with Fall and just steep in the beauty.

However, if a mostly pagan person has a Good Friday, it is this season.  Or at least it is for this person (who really prefers not to identify with any one dogma, thank you.)

I'm not certain which precisely to blame--the degree to which I adore the green, growing months, or the amount I dread when everything outside is faded into an endlessly bleak gray and dull brown, when you step outside the door and shiver into yourself rather than stretching forward happily into the beauty of the day.  Either way,  I usually waffle back and forth for most of autumn without feeling able to truly enjoy it.  I have just enough sense left to know that I am missing out on the essence of this season because I dread the next.


Well, here's the deal.  Lately I've been dabbling in facing up to my honest emotions, trying to honor them and feel them and hopefully proceed on, and let them pass by with me the richer for the experience.  This admittedly has something to do with a chicken, which is...humbling.  But it also has much to do with a series of friends who are navigating truly rough times, and with going through my own growth and transformation in a year of no job and only a little bit of faith.

Which brings me to the title of this post:  Frederick the mouse.  A book from my childhood...I really should own a copy, and so should you.  I think of Frederick every fall when the weather is beautiful and I know that I only have a few more moments of this bliss before the cold comes to stay. 

While the other field mice frantically, perpetually, scurry to gather and store as much of the summer's bounty as possible, Frederick is a dreamer who doesn't appear to be doing much other than lingering by the flowers, soaking up the sunshine, and listening to the warm voices of the breeze.

In the depths of the following winter, however, Frederick's gifts are revealed:  when the food runs low, and the cold & dark are most oppressive, Frederick begins to speak of the memories he stored up throughout the summer and fall--all of the colors, scents, and textures in all that beauty--and while he describes these wonderful things that are so far away, they become real for the other cold, listless mice.  While Frederick tells his tales, his friends and family are sustained by what they were too busy to enjoy, and for a magical moment, everyone is warmed and content.

[Sorry, but I find this suddenly quite amusing:  is it any wonder that I am not a driven businessperson?  Ha!  That's right, I blame my parents for their hippie children's books! Oh, that is fantastic.]

So.  Ahem.  My point is that this year, I am determined to be Frederick.  Rather than shying away from these extravagant days of limpid sunshine and drenched color, I am wallowing in them.  The winter is still going to be cold, and the day will come in February (and then again every other hour in March) when I am going to lose my mind if I can't step outside and enjoy it rather than shivering away in search of another sweater--I know this.  It can't be helped.  It is how I am.  It is part of the cycle.

But this day is a gift.  I am appreciating the bejeezus out of it.

Clean livin' and the lord

Guess what?

Soap's ready to use!  

It's been curing for a month in the spare bedroom.  I've visited it often.

And use it we have been--now that those long four weeks are finally over!  It is really nice stuff...very gentle and more slippery than lathery, which is what we are used to anyway since we've been using health-food-store soaps for the last few years.  It cleans well and hasn't disintegrated in our shower (but isn't kept in the trajectory of the showerhead, either, let's be honest.)  It is mild, and I like using it for my face;  I hope that it will prove helpful for Jason's eczema with continued use.

OK, here's the deal:  do you know how satisfying it is to have made something entirely new--to have the chemical reaction work correctly the first time?  I think household alchemy is pretty dang fun, personally.  I will be making soap again...soon.  I keep giving it away, and that month-long waiting period is a bummer.

I am sad to say that the essential-oil fragrance has apparently been sacrificed to the curing period in the open air.  I would like to test the pH of the bars next time to see how long it actually takes them to cure, rather than just going with the average time, which might help.  I would also like to try again with essential oils, but use strong scents like rosemary and mint.  Oh, or clove and cinnamon.  Mmm.  


I was thinking the other day that if there is one area of this homesteading experiment that I feel I have truly explored, it is the home- and human-cleaning product realms.  For most of the last year I have made, rather than bought, the following:

• shampoo
• conditioner 
• hair gel
• body lotion
• herbal salve for wounds
• face lotion
• bathroom spray cleaner
• soft scrub
• toilet cleaner
• kitchen spray/general cleaner
• floor cleaner    

More recently, I've been trying my hand at making
-soap
-laundry detergent
-bug spray
-and bay rum.  

This is such a fun genre to dabble in, and I wish that I could be privately funded to focus on and play with herbs and potion-making all the day long.  I have books on herbs that I bought while in high school, so this is no passing fancy.  [Oh, and I would go to herbalist school in a heartbeat.  I love the rich history that women have with herbs and healing--just as I love the anarchy inherent to the fact that some of the most useful herbs are what we now call weeds.]  

Ultimately, the colors and scents and gathering out in the fresh air and sunshine are a blissful way to spend your day.  I have the most wonderful mason jar full of sun-dried calendula flowers that represents hours of picking, preparing, and drying beautiful flower-heads on sunny days throughout the summer.  How can they be anything but a force for health and happiness?


I also should point out that our house and persons are as clean as they were when we were buying all of the commercial cleaning stuff.   (Notice how cleverly I worded that.  Ha!  Some of you uber-housekeepers would faint, but I think we do OK.)  If anything, I feel like my hair and skin have benefited from this simplistic routine.  I absolutely love not having a label to bother reading--and if you are concerned about the chemical soup we live in like I am, then you are probably inclined to squint at label gobble-de-gook as well.  It is very freeing to have made what you are using and know the ingredients and their quality inherently.  It is a bit of a challenge to try to recreate for myself all that we would otherwise buy, and I am sure that I will eventually need to start weighing what is worth the time-invested and what would better to buy ready-made.  For right now, though, I am having fun.


If you are interested in trying some or any of these cleanliness-creations yourself, there are  many great resources out there with recipes, tips, and suggestions.  My favorites include:

• Rosemary Gladstar's Recipes for Vibrant Health:  175 Teas, Tonics, Oils, Salves, Tinctures, and Other Natural Remedies for the Entire Family
• Better Basics for the Home:  Simple Solutions for Less Toxic Living, by Annie Berthold-Bond
• The Wild and Weedy Apothecary:  an A to Z Book of Herbal Concoctions, Recipes, Remedies, Practical Know-How & Food for the Soul, by Doreen Shababy
• The Naturally Clean Home:  150 Super-Easy Herbal Formulas for Green Cleaning, by Karyn Siegel-Maier

  In general, let me say that I use a lot of the following, some of which is available at any grocery or drugstore  (but may be better sourced at a health food store):  

distilled white vinegar, organic apple cider vinegar, olive oil, extra-virgin olive oil, coconut oil, pure aloe vera, witch hazel, vegetable glycerin, beeswax, baking soda, washing soda, castile soap, borax, lye, fresh or dried herbs and essential oils. 

--and that just about wraps up my shopping list.  From hence, all cleanliness cometh.

Well, with the exception of dishwashing liquid, which continues to elude me.  Tricky liquid soap.   Ah, well. 

Ode to Moe

A question that seems to come up fairly quickly among people who have kept chickens is:  "How many have you lost?"  Chickens are, inescapably, succulent potential dinners running around in pretty feathers and fancy headgear, a fact I have worried about continually in my wildlife-rich neighborhood.  We try to find a good balance between giving the girls freedom and still keeping them safe.  [Whoa.  Just sounded exactly like my father.  Good lord.]   We have a six-foot privacy fence around the yard, lots of hiding places, and we are scrupulous about locking the girls in their coop when it is bedtime and the majority of the predators appear--we worry, but we go ahead and live our lives.   I have gotten surprised responses from several people when I answer "Haven't lost any yet!" and I am grateful, every time, to be able to give the same answer.


Sadly, that easy answer is no longer true.

We've lost our dear Ramona.

The girls are noticeably upset and subdued.  So are we.

*     *     *

Now, there have been a couple of other times in this blog that I've been tempted to expound philosophically about the Greater Truths of Life which may be discovered by contemplating your backyard flock. I have heroically managed to keep myself in hand on those occasions--I would, after all, prefer that you think of me as a relatively practical, down-to-earth person, and not someone off with the fairies.

Well, these last days have required Practical Down-to-Earth Maggie to be present with a vengeance (it is not acceptable for a 34-year-old woman to have a massive breakdown over a dead chicken, FYI)...and yet, all the while, in the background, my mind and heart have been simmering with poignant Great Truths.  About Ramona.  About keeping animals.  About loving other creatures, of any kind.  About life, death, and what in the world to do with the last two dark-brown, pointed eggs in my carton?

Never fear:  I will not burden you with all of these thoughts.  In fact, my inner-dialogue voice tends to snort derisively when my heart tries to talk about these things.  The last thing I ever wanted to become, when I placed the order for my little flock, was the chicken equivalent of those women who carry miniature, yipping dogs in their designer handbags.  While I will admit freely that these animals are pets far more than they are livestock, I do not want to be overly sentimental or impractical.  We couldn't justify enormous vet bills or superhuman efforts if one of the girls were ill, for example.  I have long wrestled with what we will ultimately do with the girls as they age and lay fewer and fewer eggs.  I have semi-serious dreams of raising a meat flock some summer...damn it, I am not just a silly, impractical urbanite!

And yet...my sweet Mo-mo-chicken.  My sweet girl. 

It is hard to believe we won't have anymore of our mutual chats...the soft warmth of her sitting quietly against my chest, cocking her head to make eye contact, and conversationally chirping and cooing.

It occurs to me that this grief is partially her fault:  she made a lifelong habit out of charming us and whatever other humanity she had the opportunity to sidle up to.  It was Ramona who napped in our cupped palms as a brand-new chick, and who perched proudly on my shoulder when she was first getting her feathers.  If you have been to my place to meet the girls, you have either held, petted, or fed her, I'm sure.  I can't count the number of times I have turned around to see a young child awkwardly grasping Mo-mo to their chest--with Moe looking at me calmly as if to say:  It's OK.  People this size always have food....

I referred to her as our lap chicken. What can I say?  It is futile to try to categorize her as simply another cog in the wheel of our little homestead; she was, more than the other girls (dare I say that?), an entity in her own right.

[TOP SECRET:  In fact, the concept of wishing--if it had to happen at all--that Ramona would have survived in exchange for one of the other girls has actually been expressed by most of the humans closest to this little flock.  We feel really awful about saying it...and yet--behold the power of Ramona.]

And, with that, I am done with the sentimental stuff.  Promise.

Now, I am sure that many of you are wondering what happened.  With as little gore as possible, let me say this:  probably a raccoon.  Possibly an owl out hunting a bit early.  Either way, it was a violent death that we hope was very quick.

Actually, the whole thing was rather harrowing--Jason was gone for a long weekend, white-water rafting with his dad in West Virginia, and so it was Maggie vs the Crisis.  Awesome.  I came home from dropping him off a few hours away at his parents' place, and found the backyard in chaos.  The remaining girls had witnessed the violence and were panicked--Roxie was somehow over the back fence in the neighbor's yard and couldn't figure out how to get home.  In trying to puzzle that out, I happened upon poor Ramona--near the fence, and near a large gap that I hadn't known was in the fence (it is partially hidden by the brush pile.) 

In any case, finding her body, while hard, was also helpful in the sense that one immediately knows that the sweet, sassy spark that was "Ramona" is gone, and what is left is, truly, just a carcass.  This was nothing like most open-casket funeral home ordeals where the departed looks like a creepy wax figure with a few inches of stage make-up slathered on--this death wasn't sanitized, which was a first for me.  In truth, I am grateful.  One look was enough to know two things with certainty:  that is Ramona, and she isn't coming back.  It is almost as though the moment I found her little body, Ramona-in-this-world disappeared and a bright light was lit in my mind, a warm little glow of funny & precious memories.  If she, herself, can't be here, then I am glad that her personality remains larger than life.

And it is, let me tell you!  Do you have any idea how many people knew Ramona?  I've received sympathy cards.  No joke.  Most of the condolences I've received have been accompanied by a story about her--the first chicken I've ever held!...she came running when you called...I couldn't believe she let me hold her and pet her...etc.  We feel a little less silly now, so thank you for the stories.  We weren't the only ones who loved her. 

It has been close to two weeks, now.  The girls are coping, but slowly.  They are quite depressingly discombobulated--to go from four to three is a enormous change for ladies of such predictable habits! We've moved the outdoor pen back beside the garage for the winter, and they are content to stay confined (that should tell you all you need to know!), with access to the coop in the garage and the pen outside. While they will have free range time again (if I'm able to convince the Red Rooster that this is a worthwhile risk), for now we are only letting them run around while we are outside with them--and even so, they stick close to us or hide under cover most of the time.  Gone are the days where we all felt invincible--the girls and the humans around here are like newly-driving teenagers who've been through their first scary car accident.  No more carefree joy-riding!  We know, painfully, that "it" can happen to us.

SO.  Anyway, that is the story of the demise of Ramona!  We buried her under the hackberry tree in the backyard, and covered the spot with stones.  It feels good to have her still be a part of our place.  After thinking it all over for a while, we are probably going to add another chicken to the flock before winter, to ensure that we have enough eggs over the slow season, and to bring in the newbie before the original three get used to their new flock dynamics. 

With that, here are a few more of our favorite pictures. 

The life and times of our Moe:

This was probably the last time we were rational about this chicken

Coffee talk

Big-girl feathers

A teenager with a pin-up rooster

Educational chickens

Beautiful iridescent feathers...freshly groomed.

The Tour de Coops

Before I swear not to talk chicken anymore (OK.  We all know that's a lie.  How about "not talk chicken for a few weeks?"), I have to say:

The TOUR de COOPS was an AMAZING event.  Thank you to all of the folks involved!  Believe it or not, over 500 people registered at Broad Ripple Park for this tour!  Jason & I can't wait to do this again next year.

I guess that I didn't have a firmly-fashioned vision of how the Tour would unfold, but I never dreamed we would be as busy as we were.  We didn't keep count, but my guess is that we saw a few hundred tourists that afternoon.  Especially since Rocky Ripple is a bit farther west than most of the other stops on the tour, I had no idea that we would have such a crowd.  In fact, since we were #9 on the suggested route everyone received upon registering, we figured that we would have to wait a while for our first tourists to show up.

Um, nope.  At precisely 2:01PM, while I was dashing to print signs to help direct the traffic flow in and out of the backyard, the first car pulled up.  I had thought that I would still change clothes/make sure my hair wasn't a completely crazed mess, etc., and at the very least I had intended to set up some water and cups for thirsty bikers.

Instead, I jumped right in to talking about all-things-chicken, while walking people around the backyard, the outdoor run, the coop inside the garage...and I didn't stop until 6PM.  I saw Jason out of the corner of my eye doing the same--he was almost hoarse by the end of the afternoon. It doesn't help, of course that both of us are talkers, yet honestly every time I finished and said goodbye to one person or group, I would turn and run directly into someone new.

I know that a few of the people who were hosting other stops along the way had to field all of the tourists on their own--in this I was extremely fortunate to have not only the Red Rooster himself--my darlin' Jason, but also my younger sister Christiana, her boyfriend Josh, and my older sisters Marti and Julie here as witnesses, tour guides, and general helpers. 

The best part of the whole day, though, were all of the great people that we met, most of whom had very thoughtful questions and were obviously having a fantastic afternoon.  We heard, several times, someone say something along the lines of, "This is great--we have so many good ideas now.  We can do this ourselves!"  And, really, isn't that the point of the whole thing?  We are so proud and happy to be a part of spreading the word:  backyard chickens are something that anyone can do!

Here are a few more of our favorite pictures:

Chicken Mania

Well, folks, it is almost time.  Hard to believe that September 18th is looming large on my horizon--and yet here we are, just about ready to put the 14th to bed.  (Ack!)

Time for what, you ask?  Why the Tour de Coops, of course!  Over 200 hundred people, largely on bicycles, coming to meet my chickens and see how we've set up our flock accommodations.  For those of you who already get it, that last sentence won't sound strange...for the rest of you--well, you really need to hug a chicken.  Then it should all become clear.  [Ramona says that you can hug her, if you'd like; just make sure to bring treats.]

This is going to be a short post, I'm afraid.  If I had everything cleaned, weeded, organized, painted, washed (quit digging in the compost, ladies), sorted, pruned, and arranged, then I would post pictures all over here to show off. 

As it is, I have only one bit of business in a show-off state--the picnic table that Jason & I built this week.  We are very pleased with this massive structure, and are currently having fun imagining all of the meals we will share with friends, outside under our beautiful hackberry, in the years to come.

All told, this probably cost us around $40 to build--and most of that was spent on the shellac we used to seal the wood.  The lumber was free, the plans were free, and we had the necessary tools already.  If only I could build for myself all of the items that I covet at the garden and hardware stores!

So, at least when the hordes of chicken fans come clamoring through the gate this weekend...we will have a snazzy table for them to sit at.  :)

There is one interesting bit of business--aside from the table (and the messy garage)--in the following picture:

Those white panels in the back, on the left, are the future (i.e., before the 18th) roof of the girls' outdoor pen.  I had primed the plywood panels and left them to dry in this picture.  Now, however, they are being decoratively painted by my dear little preschoolers at Meridian Street Preschool Cooperative.  I love the way that all of these different aspects of my life are coming together.  Modern art by four-year-old gardeners, famous chickens...tomato, tomahto.  The urban homesteader takes it all in her stride!

Once the roof art is complete, then all I have left to do is:

-seal and assemble said roof
-clean and organize the garage (again)
-clean and paint the coop
-weed the mulch around the yard, so that the mulch is visibly brown, rather than green
-do *something* about the flower bed that I supposedly protected from the chickens with my quaint little stick fence (where the hussies continue to dust bathe and crush all of the flowers.)
-do something with the woodpile/truck camper-top/stacks of windows-waiting-to-become-a-greenhouse arranged around the garage with a distinctly "hillybilly" feel
-did I mention weeding?

Oh good grief.  Time for a medicinal glass of wine on the couch.  Wish me luck.

Queen of the Suds (oh dear)

"It is said that Roman women 'discovered' soap some 3000 years ago by accident when they were washing sacred stones after an animal sacrifice.  The combination of fat, water, and ashes from the sacrificial fire created a crude soapy substance."

-Folk Wisdom for a Natural Home, Beverly Pagram, 1997, Trafalgar Square Publishing, North Pomfret, VT.

The first time I read the above passage, it didn't seem terribly illuminating...or even rather likely.  As if such a precise chemical process as saponification could happen--ooops, how handy!--while scrubbing off some dirty stones.  Those of you who have never been mildly obsessed with the idea of making soap may not know the term saponification, and I didn't either until recently.  I knew that soap-making entailed the use of lye, that lye was a nasty, dangerous substance, and that there was heat involved.  In short, I had this vision of me cackling over a cauldron of poisonous fumes shortly before I burned the crap out of myself.

Back over here in reality, saponification is as follows:  it is a chemical reaction that occurs when fat (which is acidic) reacts with a strong alkali--in particular, sodium hydroxide which, when mixed with water, is called lye.  The reaction is a chemical transformation; you are left with neither lye nor fat nor any of their characteristics, but instead an entirely new product called soap.  The tricky part is that the whole shebang is caustic as hell--and requires proper levels of heat for each ingredient while mixing, not to mention the fact that sodium hydroxide, upon mixing with water, gets very hot and can make like a volcano all over the place--a lot of possible operator error for a newbie.

My opening quote continues:  "Traditional soap-making, utilizing as it does spluttering fat (many folk recipes from Europe, America, and Australia incorporate tallow, suet, and 'breakfast grease') plus caustic lye--an alkaline solution made by water dripping through wood ash, is a dangerous operation."

If I didn't want to make soap so badly, I'd want nothing to do with it.

However, the more I read about soap making--and in particular, the more I review the chapter on making a batch of blender soap (!) in my new favorite DIY book Making It:  Radical Home Ec for a Post-Consumer World--the more I am convinced that the Roman tale is probably correct.  Just the right combination, in fact, of heat, fat, lye, water, and agitation.  Fortunately, in Making It, I have a more detailed recipe, one that doesn't involve "spluttering fat" glopping all over.

Not much you can do about the lye, though.

SO!  Ready for soap-making 101?  I am!  

OK.  First:  we are not going to be using animal fat this time around (but I do not deny that I have several cans of old bacon grease tucked away for a rainy day.  I know, ew, right?)  Instead, we are making bars of castile soap, which has come to mean any soap made with vegetable oils.  In this case, we are making the original, Spanish version of castile soap, using only olive oil.  But leave your extra virgin stuff for eating, and use just regular ol' olive oil which will work better in soap-making.


If you want to have fragrance to your soaps, use essential oils.  They are expensive, and you may decide that unscented soap is just fine, since this recipe takes an entire teaspoon if you want to have a discernible fragrance in the finished product.  This first time, I am going to try adding scent to see how long it lasts and decide whether I think it is worth it for future batches.  I am using about 1/2 tsp of lavender, and then the remaining 1/2 tsp a mixture of sweet orange and a few drops of cedarwood.  Yum.

Finally, lye.  You can find it at a hardware store under chemical drain cleaners.  The only ingredient should be sodium hydroxide--if the ingredients aren't listed, beware.  You do not want to grab a can of Mr Plumber and start a science experiment.  The one I found said "100% lye" on it, which simplified matters--look for that, or "100% sodium hydroxide."  If you cannot find any locally, there are soap-making sites online where you can purchase it.



Now, hear ye for the disclaimer real quick like:  I don't think you would really want to just jump full-length into soap-making immediately after reading this post--I'm entirely new to the process myself and learning as I go.  I recommend getting a good handbook on soap-making from the library (or getting Making It) and using far more experienced folks as your guides.  However, this is how it worked for me....

Equipment & general prep

First, make sure you have a good kitchen scale (one that has the "tare" function where you can zero-out the weight of a container.)  You will want to measure the ingredients by weight, not volume, for better precision.   Second, you need a heat-proof container in which to mix the lye crystals and water; I used a mason canning jar.  You will need gloves and protective goggles with an elastic strap (think high school chemistry class).  Wrap-around glasses are not enough--they need to be splash-proof, and held tightly against your face like a snorkeling mask.  Wear old clothes with long sleeves and pants, closed-toe shoes...better safe than sorry.  Tie your hair back.  Sequester children and pets in another location.  Have access to great ventilation for the lye-mixing part--or better yet, do that outside.

And, of course you need a blender, which can be your regular kitchen blender (everything cleans up nicely) or one dedicated to soap-making.  A long-handled spoon--not aluminum.  Finally, you need a mold for your soap.  While there are all sorts of fancy ones to buy, the easiest & cheapest is to save a paper milk carton--either half-gallon size or quart size.  Open the top of the carton fully, wash thoroughly, and let dry.

Ingredients


2 oz. lye
6 oz. filtered water
16 oz. olive oil
1 tsp. essential oil (optional)

Method

Put on gloves and goggles.  Put a small bowl on the scale, press the tare button and wait for the scale to read "zero."  Slowly and carefully measure 2 oz of the sodium hydroxide (lye) into the bowl.  Set aside.  Put the empty mason jar (or other heat-proof container) on the scale and zero out the weight.  Pour in 6 oz of filtered water.  Take the water, bowl of lye crystals, and the long handled spoon outside or to an area with an exhaust fan/open window.  Very carefully, pour the lye into the water and stir to dissolve the crystals--DO NOT pour the water onto the lye, which can cause a volcano of burning, caustic lye all over the place.  The mixture will look cloudy and immediately heat up to 180 degrees, so use extreme caution.  Once the crystals are dissolved, let the lye cool and settle for 5-10 minutes (making sure curious pets and children can't access it).

In the meantime, place a larger container on the scale, zero the weight, and measure 16 oz of olive oil (not extra virgin).  If you are using essential oils, measure out the teaspoon of oil into a small container.  Check to make sure that your blender is put together correctly--rubber gasket in place, everything screwed together firmly.  Pour the olive oil into the blender & plug it in.  Have the essential oil next to the blender, ready, along with the long handled spoon, something to rest the spoon on in between uses, and an old kitchen towel.

Once the lye has started to cool and look less cloudy, make sure you are wearing your gloves and goggles.  Do the next fews steps in calm, smooth succession:  first, slowly and carefully pour the lye mixture into the blender.  Put on the blender lid, then put the kitchen towel on top of the lid for good measure.  Hold down the towel/lid with one hand.  With the other, turn the blender on to its lowest speed for ten seconds, then stop the blender.  Wait for the contents to settle, then remove the towel & lid and dip in the spoon.  The mixture should be very liquid and runny.  Replace the lid & towel and continue to process at the lowest speed for 30 seconds at a time, checking the consistency of the mixture in between.

You are looking for a consistency called "trace"--which means that when you dip in the spoon and dribble some back on the surface, it doesn't immediately disappear back into the mixture, but starts to leave a "trace" behind on the surface.  In other words, you find the mixture starting to change from very liquid toward a more pudding-like consistency.  When this change starts to happen, you have very little time before the mixture will become too thick to pour, so as soon as you notice a thickening, pour in your essential oil (if using) and pulse a few more times to mix--then immediately remove the blender carafe from the base and pour the mixture into your mold.  If it is already too thick to pour, scoop it out of the blender with a spatula and smooth it into the mold as best you can.  This mixture will still be caustic--use care.  The entire blending process will be done within a five-minute time period.

Fold up the top flaps of the milk carton and clip or tape it shut.  The mixture will still be hot, so carefully put the mold somewhere that it can rest for a day or so without being bothered.

To clean up your blender and other equipment, run a sink of hot, soapy water.  Keep your gloves and goggles on, and use the spoon or a spatula to remove and throw away as much of the mixture from the items to be washed as you can.  Wash everything in the soapy water and rinse thoroughly.  If you will be using these items for regular cooking, it might be smart to wash them a second time.  Let dry.

Check your soap after 24 hours to see if it has become solid.  Open the lid and reach in with a finger to see if the surface is still sticky--if it is, let the soap cool and solidify for another day and recheck.  Soaps made of different types of fats and oils will harden with greater or lesser speed, and castile soap can take several days.  Once it is as solid as chilled butter, peel away the carton carefully.  Slice your soap with a sharp knife into the size bars you prefer.

You can use a vegetable peeler to bevel the edges if you like.  The soap will have a consistency similar to American cheese at this point.  Let the soap continue to dry and harden for four weeks--resting somewhere out of the way with plenty of air flow, and covered lightly with a cloth.  The longer you let the soap cure, the harder it will become and the longer the bar will last once you begin to use it.

TA DA!  I just made soap!  How fun is this?  While I can see that there are many opportunities for spills and burns, I think that as long as you do not rush and pay very close attention to what you are doing, there is no reason for a catastrophe to happen.  Reading through the instructions in whatever guide you choose is also important--in fact, I would read them through from start to finish multiple times so that you are very familiar with how the process moves from one step to the next.  Do not underestimate the heat and nasty fumes of the lye--I would really try to mix the lye outside if possible and make sure to stand up-wind of the container while you are mixing it.

Other than that, the biggest challenge is now waiting a month to use this gorgeous, creamy looking soap!  If I like this as well as I think that I will, I know what I'm doing for Christmas presents this year....

One last tidbit:  while perusing soap-making manuals after finishing this blender batch, I keep reading passages that refer to genuine castile soap (100% olive oil soap, which is what this recipe creates) as very tricky to make.   Well, la dee dah!   Apparently the blender method takes a difficult but desirable soap and renders it simple.  How cool is that?  Pure olive oil soap is extremely mild and rich, with less lather than modern commercial soap, but suitable for body and hair and anyone with sensitive skin. 

Catching up.

Can we go sit out under the pergola with some coffee and catch up for a few hours?  We can bring leftover spaghetti as a treat for the girls, and I can babble on at you about all of the crazy (good) developments in my life over the past few weeks.  (If I can get all of the thoughts whirling around inside my head into some sort of coherent order, that is.)

Well, let's stick with the proper priorities:  first, Roxie.  Thankfully, she's given up on hatching babies for the time being.  What, you may ask, cured her from her stubborn broodiness?


After multiple days of removing her from her nest several times throughout the day--with no success--I decided to try a different strategy:  make the nest too uncomfortable to occupy!  This broken coin-sorter just happened to be sitting on the workbench in the garage next to their coop.  Hmmm, I thought, those look like uncomfortably sharp edges....

So, I tucked it, pointy side up, in her nest and went on with my day.  The other girls, who hadn't lost their minds in mommy-mania, could still use other nesting spots, and my hope was that Roxie would be her stubborn self and refuse to switch nests.  Which is exactly what happened.  Pathetic that I'm keeping track, I know, but the score is Maggie =1, Roxie =0 in the Broody Wars.

Even better, after about two weeks of sulking and shedding a few feathers (I would guess a hormonal thing--although I feared she might be heading into another molt, just for spite,) she is back to laying her pretty blue eggs and dishing out sass to any human that crosses her path.  Ah, normalcy. 

In other chicken news, the Tour de Coops is coming soon and gathering lots of steam!  At last count, there were over 100 people planning to attend this bike-tour of chicken coops in Rocky Ripple and neighboring areas.  I've been scheming on how to spruce up both the indoor coop in the garage (and the dusty mess that IS the garage) and the ladies' outdoor run in the yard.  Right now we are more of a lesson in how-to-house-chickens-on-the-cheap rather than here's-my-posh-chicken-digs-a-la-Martha-Stewart.  Oh dear.  In any case, don't you just love the Tour's poster?  Pure awesomeness.  Kudos to Andrew Brake for coming up with this fun event--bike-riding, fun neighborhoods, and chickens!  Woo hoo!

OK.  So, chickens...check.  Now, on to:  my new JOB.

Yes, folks, after a year of unemployed student-dom, I have a boss.  Are you ready for the almost-scary-synchronicity?  Well, I am now working with a fellow Rocky Ripple citizen who also happens to be an earlier graduate of my masters at St. Mary-of-the-Woods.  Her name is Angela, and she focused on community gardens for her project.  A few years later, and she is now heading Fall Creek Gardens:  Urban Growers Resource Center...and I am officially an employee!  FCG is both a community garden for the Mapleton-Fall Creek neighborhood, and also a resource center for anyone involved with urban gardening or agriculture in central Indiana.  I am very excited to be joining this organization in its early stages--so many dreams, plans, and goals to pursue.  For a great summation of some of our ideas check out this post on the website www.fallcreekgardens.org.

Since I tend toward cliches, here is one for you:  it never rains, but it pours!  You may remember from last fall that I was very excited about an event in another part of town called the Irvington SkillShare--a wonderful day of different folks demonstrating various ways to live a less consumptive, more creative urban life.  Well, last weekend was the second annual SkillShare, and around halfway through the week, I was notified that the bread-baker had to cancel at the last minute--could I do it?  Did I know someone else who might want to?

Well.  You know how I feel about baking bread.  I had some possible scheduling conflicts, however, so I mentioned this need to my baking buddy Amy and our mutual friend Chris, who bakes all the bread his family of seven needs each week.  We got together to plan.  Ideas started bubbling up everywhere...like (dare I say it?) a big bowl of yeast.  The next thing you know, we've come up with a name for this trifecta of bakers:  the breadgeeks.  Then someone thinks to check and see if we can get a gmail account with this name in case visitors to the SkillShare want to contact us after the fact with questions.  --and yep! that email is available.

Hmmm.

What the hell, we say, and check to see if the domain name is available...and yes it is.  Wow!  As a ".com" too, which never happens anymore.  OK--we checked Facebook--no other breadgeeks there either!  Ack!  More crazy synchronicity!

One wild hour later, we had the bare bones of a plan:  we are the breadgeeks.  We believe that everyone is capable of baking cheap, yummy, healthy bread for their families.  No fancy equipment necessary, or gourmet flours (although we do splurge sometimes)--no need to buy another loaf, bagel, cracker, or tortilla!  No need to fear the yeast!  The next thing you know, we had Tshirts:

Our purpose, we decided, was to take the baking to the people...whether by workshops, demonstrations, or best of all, in-home baking parties!  Want to learn how to make a loaf of artisan bread, some delicious sandwich wraps, and a bag of graham crackers?  Well, then call your friends--and the breadgeeks.  We'll come over, pop a bottle of wine, and teach you everything you need to know.

The SkillShare was wonderful.  We enjoyed ourselves immensely.  It is always fantastic to chat with people who care about the same things that you care about, and it is even better if you can feed them something yummy at the same time.  Chris held court in the kitchen, demonstrating his version of no-knead artisan breads, while Amy & I fried up some corn tortillas on an electric griddle at our display table.  We offered bagels I'd made the night before for sampling, the bread from Chris, the tortillas--and then for the crowning touch, Amy rolled out and baked her graham cracker dough.  Heaven.

SO.  I think that brings us largely up-to-date.  We are working on a website (www.breadgeeks.com) and blog (www.breadgeeks.wordpress.com) and to solidify our ideas about classes and workshops.  We are also composing our "breadgeeks manifesto" which we promise to make a fun read.  If you are a Facebook-er, please visit the breadgeeks page there and "like" us to help spread the baking fun!

Jason and I also made time to visit the State Fair somewhere in the middle of all this, and I think I embarrassed Jason by talking (aloud) to all of the chickens and roosters on display.  Nothing terribly surprising.  Several of them talked back.  :)  I am gearing up to make a batch of blender soap in the near future, so stay tuned for that adventure!  I will also be reporting back about the success of an herbal bug spray that is finally ready to be strained and bottled.  Lots of fun stuff going on around here! 

Oh, dang--almost forgot to mention:  the Indianapolis Star sent a reporter and photographer to interview me about keeping chickens last week as well!  The story should be published in September, prior to the Tour de Coops, so stay tuned!  That was a few days-worth of panicked housecleaning and coop-tidying, let me tell you!  Whew....  How's your August going?

A Year with the Girls

We've hit a few milestones around here in the last few days.  

I missed the anniversary of my first-ever blog post; that was back in July somewhere while I was feverishly thesis-writing.  But nevertheless, faithful readers, you've been following the life-n-times of the Rocky Ripple homestead for a year now.

...Which also means that I have been unemployed for a year as well.  The last time I could say that was over half my lifetime ago when I had never actually been employed.  Wow....


But the main thing, the big event, the special guests, the reason for the season (if you will) is:

The girls are one year old!  Big biddies. The four chickens of the apocalypse.  (However you like to refer to them.)

A year ago, I was waiting on pins and needles for the postman to call...they hatched on August 2nd, and they arrived in the wee sma's on the 4th.  I've been looking back at the pictures we took in those first few weeks--I spent my first week of unemployment in a 95 degree room, sweating, and hanging over the edge of their brooder in delight.


Of course, the girls (with--as usual--one exception) are not phased by this at all.  What is a year of life, Ramona asks, when it looks like you might have a treat in your pocket?

One of the ladies, however, seems to be taking her advanced age to heart.  Yes, of course I am talking about Roxie the Drama Queen.  Who else gives me continual trouble??  Roxie, it turns out, is an educational chicken.  As in, the chicken destined to give me real-life experience from every last damn chapter of my "how to raise chickens" books.  Just when I get rather comfortable in my role as Top Chicken, Roxie dreams up another fowl crisis. (snicker.)

Today's drama:  she wants to be a mother.  I have a broody chicken on my hands.

Ramifications for the humans in her world:  no more eggs from Roxie until she gets it through her head that sitting on imaginary eggs is futile.

Now, I am the first to admit that I probably need to get a grip and not take this personally.  In fact, when I stop being annoyed by my problem chicken and the loss of her pretty blue eggs, her behavior is rather poignant.

She sits, in the sweltering heat of the coop, for most of the day, a selfless and dedicated Madonna of the Straw.  She has been plucking soft downy feathers from her chest and tummy to make a more luxurious nest.  Vocal as always, she talks now in entirely new tones, soft chirps or swift, staccato sentences warning you away from the important duties she is trying to perform.  And when you approach her on the nest, she puffs up majestically, her tail feathers splayed like a turkey--a ferocious Mama Rox who will defend her eggs against all challengers.

Of course, there are no eggs.  As a rule, I whisk them away as soon as I see them, and once her broody hormones kicked in, she stopped laying anyway and has been hogging that nest ever since so that no one else dares to plop one down.

We talk about this, Roxie and I.  I've been removing her from her post several times a day since this broody behavior started, encouraging her to snap out of it and go back to her normal swinging-single self.  As much as she puffs up, as much as she complains, she has never pecked at me.  Her friendly temperament is still there, underneath all of the mama-hormones.  So I stroke down those enormously puffed feathers and coo to her that she is a good girl.  I pick her up as she grumbles under her breath, and as I walk her outside I continue to soothe and stroke her.  Roxie, darlin, I say, honey, you can't get babies without roosters, sweetheart, and we don't want one of those around the place. 

She is NOT convinced.

And, being Roxie, she tells me all about it in these new weird chirps.  There is no mistaking the emotion behind these noises.  She is bitching at me--there is no other word for it.  I am messing things up; I don't listen.  She is trying to hatch some precious BABIES here, and everyone keeps foiling her plans.

Roxie, sister, look--here are all your girls, wondering what is wrong with you.  There is your food, your water, a nice shady dust bath--and a BREEZE.  Why don't I put you down to hang out here for a while and give the nest a rest.
 
I put her down.  She walks away, still puffed up, with a disgruntled air.  She noses around with the other girls for a bit. Within ten minutes, she has disappeared back into the coop.

Fine.  Have your imaginary pregnancy in that oven of a garage.

Later, I am out hanging laundry on the line, near the pophole in the side of the garage where the girls climb the ladder to enter and exit the coop.  I walk over to hang some pillowcases close to the pophole.  Unseen, Roxie starts her warning chirps at me.  I lean over to snap right back at her through the pophole:  listen, you silly chicken!

I stop.  I am getting into a fight with a chicken.  I think I need to get a job or some outside interests or something.  Jeez. I walk away and ignore the ominous grumbling from the coop while I finish the laundry.

************

So.  The rest of the girls are doing well--fat, happy ladies reveling in the freedom of their backyard kingdom (queendom?) and the treats from the kitchen.  Betty is probably the best gal all-around, my beautiful Silver-Laced Wyandotte.  She is a neat, small, precise little package of a chicken, with no incessant squawking or otherwise questionable behavior.  She seems very self-possessed.  She is also a reliable layer, with her pretty, round light-brown eggs coming every day or every other day.  While she doesn't particularly like to be held, once I have her securely in my arm, she relaxes and responds to my pats and sweet-nothings with a little low-pitched coo now and then. Here she is now:

and just for fun, here is baby Betty a year ago, a little dollop of black and silver fuzz :

And then there is Fern, the Partridge Plymouth Rock.  She is a force to be reckoned with.  Not to be insensitive, but when she comes charging across the yard at you (certain that you are bringing something to eat that she must get to first), you expect the earth to tremble with each thundering stride:  BOOM-BA-BA, BOOM-BA-BA BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!  It is even worse now that it is hot, because she lifts her shoulders up and out a little at the sides for better ventilation and looks for all the world as though she has on football pads.  All this from the teeniest chick of the lot, the one that I worried wouldn't make it for the first few days.  Funny, how these things turn out.

Fern is a good girl.  She lays big round pinkish-brown eggs, and she has the funniest little running commentary that sounds like a squeaky box-springs:  er-Er, er-ER, er-Er, er-ER.  She has no sense of self-preservation when there is food involved--I have actually punted her a few feet on accident because she is so intent on getting to the treat that I am taking to the compost heap that she runs in and out between my legs.  Here she is today:

And here she is on Day 1, having fallen asleep on her feet:

Oh, Fern.  Lil punkin.

And then there is Ramona, the Australorp.  If you know me, you know that I lost my heart to Ramona a long time ago, conniving little wench that she is.  Even after I figured out that all of her sweetness was geared toward getting the best of the treats out of me, it was too late.  She already had me wrapped around her soft downy feathers.

This is a chicken who converses with you.  She will let anyone hold her, and when I do, and talk to her, she never fails to talk back in the sweetest baby-chickie sounds imaginable.  Weaving her spell, no doubt, but endearing nonetheless.  She will stop by to visit and sit on Jason's knee for a few minutes.  Her eggs are a darker brown, occasionally freckled and a bit pointed on one end. 

She and Fern are in constant competition to see who can get there faster when someone comes from the kitchen with food.  When she runs, she holds her head upright--she looks like a bell swinging back and forth.  The girl has hips.  (Fern, on the other hand, lowers her head and charges.)  It is quite hilarious--not long ago Ramona actually had to backpedal to avoid crashing right into Jason as he came around a corner one way, and she came barreling up in pursuit of Fern from the other direction.  He said she looked like a cartoon character digging in her heels to come to a screeching halt.

Anyway, here is my pretty lady now:

And here's the little puddin, snuggling with Roxie.  The yellow tip of her beak is her egg tooth. 

Which leaves me with the soap opera star, Roxanne.  She has the pretty cheek feathers, elongated body and blue eggs of her breed, but she is not a pure-bred Araucana.  That's OK.  We love our overly-dramatic Easter Egger.

And, back when she had the eyeliner and less angst:

SO, there you are.  We have made it through a year of chicken tending.  The girls are healthy and happy and free to fully explore their little chicken destinies.  While they are certainly not the most intelligent or graceful creatures, they have a charm that goes far beyond the beauty of their soft shiny feathers and their daily offerings of rich fresh eggs.  Having an opportunity like this to watch a chicken be a chicken makes it all the harder to imagine the short, brutal lives of the wretches at Tyson or Perdue--what an arrogant crime to take a life and make it nothing more than a commodity, stripped of health and dignity, even the occasional breath of fresh air or wriggling worm. 

Well, anyway.  When you can, buy your chicken and eggs from somewhere that lets chickens be chickens, will you?  The girls would appreciate it.  :)