It’s 30 degrees out and the chickens are snug in the coop. Finally. I got home from the DJ (Day Job – it’s been a while since I posted, so I figured I’d refresh your memory) and went outside to lock them up. There isn’t any snow on the ground today and so they got to spend the day outside the pen.

Well, the wind somehow was strong enough to knock the stick that was keeping the door open so they couldn’t go home to roost. They were locked out. Uh oh.

Putting the flashlight through the little coop door – I only saw 2 chickens. Bigger uh oh. Great, the doodles are stuck in NATURE for the night. Dammity damn damn. Stupid wind. Stupid me thinking that the big heavy door would be held open with a little stick and now my doodles would be dodging hawks and owls and coyotes (oh my!) all night.

I speed walked to the other side of the coop (no running – with my stupid luck, I’d trip, fall and break my uvula or something) (one of the most breakable things in the human body. Google it) and there were my girls, all huddled into a mass of feathers, on the ground outside the coop. They were smart and put themselves in a protected spot, sort of under the nest boxes.

Poor things, apparently the door had been shut a while, there were 3 eggs on the ground. So – I deduce the following (hawks and owls and coyotes oh my!).

  1. Wind knocked stick
  2. Door shut with 2 chickens inside while they were laying eggs
  3. It stayed that way all day
  4. My little doodles were trying to do the right thing and put their eggs in the nesting (yeah, somehow that was just auto-corrected to ‘sexting’. Not cool. Had to manually override that little spelling correction. Awesome. Note to future self – you can’t type ‘nesting’ in WordPress, it changes it to ‘sexting.’ Can’t wait to see how many hits this post gets. “Hey, dude, I was looking up sexting the other day, you know, just to like, see, right? and like, there was all this stuff, right? and then there was like this random post about, like chickens and stuff. And like, the wind and like hawks and owls and coyotes and stuff. It was like, so random dude. But now I’m like, hooked man. Yeah, I know. I can’t even explain it. It’s just so random, but like, this chicken chick is so like, I don’t know, like, deep, you know? I totally connected to her on some like, spiritual level or something.”) boxes, but they were closed and couldn’t so they laid their eggs underneath
  5. And probably stressed out all day. So, there I was -no jacket, wearing work clothes, with a flashlight, looking at 13 chickens just laying on the ground and thinking, “F! (I actually thought the entire curse word out.) How the F (full word) am I gonna do THIS?! (Here is where you really wish I were the TRUMAN SHOW because having this process on streaming video would have gone completely viral. Alas, that is not the case, so I shall describe to you what was some of the stranger series of minutes I have ever experienced.)

Wishing I had a headlamp, I took the flashlight and put it between my knees in order to light the area ahead as best I could, and bent down to grab a chicken. Ok, so bear with me here. This is where, well, it gets weird. Apparently, when chickens roost down for the night, they get a bit, (is ‘randy’ a good word or does it make me sound old? Frisky? Something that made me feel glad because I could pick them up and yet, really dirty (as in, icky/uncomfortable) all at the same time.)

As I reached for the first one, she squatted down as if to mate. (So, I just did an image search for “Stance for mating chickens” to see if I could include a photo to give you a visual and now feel like the “you-shouldn’t-be-on-this-earth-you-person-with-strange-fetishes-police” are going to come knocking because I just viewed over 100 photos in the search result, analyzing all the poor chickens getting violated by roosters and determined that none of them were the right kind of position that my chickens were in, so I’ve decided not to include the photo at all, and am now really embarrassed by those last several creepy minutes.) It was all butt up, head down, but made it easy to pick her up.

Oh, you want sexy time, chicken? Nope, IN THE COOP.

However, I couldn’t hold her with only 1 hand, and needed to see, so, with the flashlight between my knees, and a handful of chicken going, “take me I’m yours” I had to waddle, waddle waddle the 3 steps over to the coop door to put her in. The flashlight is sort of swaying back and forth as I do this waddle, lighting up the area quite strangely, like, Blair Witch, but with horny chickens instead of dumb teenagers.

For the first chicken, after placing her in the coop, I took the flashlight out from between my knees, walked the three steps holding it in my hand, put it back between my knees, grabbed another “ready” chicken, turned, waddle, waddle, waddle back to the coop,  and shoved the chicken in (gently, of course, but get the f in there). But, after the first time, it was just stupid, so I just put the flashlight between the knees (thighs actually – ugh – that admission just made it weirder), waddle, waddle, waddle, bend, grab a ready and willing hen, waddle, waddle waddle, put in the coop, waddle waddle waddle, etc.

This happened for 13 of them. I’d go to grab them, and they got all like, “Yes please” which was odd enough. One woke up a bit and hid under the nesting box and as I reached forward, she got into position for, you know, the act, and since I couldn’t reach her, I grabbed her by the tail feathers and sort of dragged her out from under the nesting boxes. Apparently she liked it rough.

AND THEN, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the stupid thigh-light ambiance all low and shadowy and sort of moving weird with the waddling just added another layer of creepiness and, well, low-budget-film to the entire experience.

DO YOU KNOW HOW THIS FEELS? Creepy, strange and now I am wondering how they’ll look at me tomorrow. They’re probably all clucking about it right now.

‘Well Blanche, I thought I was going to get some tonight.’

“Oh I know. I mean, it was the biggest rooster I’ve ever seen. I would have SO loved to get me some of that.” (There is another word for rooster that was so tempting to use right there, yet, I know that would have completely tipped the scales on this post from, “Oh Jenn you are hilarious” to “I’m blocking you.”)

“Henrietta, stop talking like that, you slut. It was extra rough with me, dragging me around by the feathers like a caveman. I don’t want any of that. I have pride, honey.”

“Oh please, you think everything is a rooster wanting to get some.  You squat every time you walk under a tree branch.”

It was a strange night. I can wash my hands after the experience, but not my memories. My memories will haunt me.

ps. There is a cookbook with the same name as this blogpost. You must get it. Very entertaining.


Narrator: It is the evening. The location is the DaisyPatch Farm kitchens. After logging off her day job computer, our heroine and steadfast gardener decided to get in some work on Operation Curb Appeal while it was still light out. (And as we all know, there’s peace and serenity in the light.) She enters, sweaty, through the front door.

Me: Well that was a mistake.

Him: What?

Me: I dug up the hounds of hell.

Him: Huh?

Me: I have caused the coming of poltergeist.

Him: What?

Me: I decided to dig up that white rock that was popping out of the middle of the backyard. I thought it would be pretty in our new garden when it’s done.

Him: Oh boy, what did you do now?

Me: You’ll see. I’m gonna look up exorcists. Think they’re expensive?




Of the 98 garlic cloves planted last fall, 42 survived, and they are small. I think it is because we had a fairly dry Spring. They’ve been pulled, braided, and are drying as we speak. It is time to admit that the Patch is slowly going away. We have 2 plum tomatoes, 2 broccoli, 1 yellow squash, 2 zucchini, 1 hot pepper, 3 cukes and some herbs. That’s it.

We love our fresh vegetables, and I hate to admit this, but we aren’t getting any younger and don’t enjoy the labor as much as we used to. The string of surgeries every summer that I’ve experienced the last few years and then the stupid knee injury (“Thanks Woodrow! Dumb dog) last year has basically given the weeds and scrub the opportunity to take hold. Now that I’ve gotten a little break health-wise (knock on wood!), I’m completely driven to take back some of our property and bring it to its former glory. Actually, the plans are way better than former glory. But they’re back-breaking. And they don’t involve vegetables.

So, keeping that in mind, we went rock shopping last weekend. You read that right. Rocks. Oh there are so many types of rocks, from stone dust (technically still rocks, just tiny), all the way up to Stone Henge. We’re moving from bark mulch to rocks in all our gardens. Why? Because bark mulch is just a poisonous tick playground. “Yes, Jenn, but you guys have chickens. Don’t they eat ticks?” Yes, we do, dearest reader, we now have 14 with the new babies. However, chickens scratch to get at the ticks and kick the bark mulch into the lawn and driveway and make an absolute mess. So, no more bark mulch. ROCKS. Pebbles and rocks, rocks and pebbles. Besides, it’s all chemicals. Ugh. Anyway. Rocks. That is what our Summer of ’17 is all about.

  • Reshape garden beds by digging up the grass along the edges
  • Toss grass chunks into garden cart
  • Drive tractor with said garden cart to side of property (new garden bed)
  • Gently place sod with grass-side down so it composts into a new garden bed
  • Rinse and repeat until garden beds are in desired shape
  • Show Keith
  • Reshape it some more
  • Show Keith
  • Dig up plants
  • Place in pots
  • Lay down garden fabric
  • Re-plant the plants
  • Continue for 4 more garden beds

I have given us until Labor Day to turn our home into a rock garden oasis! Yes, I am taking before and after pictures! I promise there will be visuals.


What can I say? It has been over a year since I posted on the Patch. There are many reasons, but the main reason is that I had nothing to post about. Our gardens have been unloved for over a year. No sense looking back to go over why. I don’t feel like getting into it. Let’s just look forward. And there is so much to look forward to…namely the 98 garlic plants that I just put in the ground yesterday. Planting garlic is the coolest. Here’s what you do…

Buy organic bulbs of garlic. Break them up into cloves and plant each of those cloves. Easy, right? Not so fast. This is the DaisyPatch Farm we’re talking about. Actually, let’s be more specific…this is me we’re talking about. Nothing’s easy. The beds were full of weeds and a few of the wood boards that made up one of the raised beds were rotted and needed replacing. Sigh.

We had the boards and screws, but not the supporting brackets, so off to Home Depot. Keith came out to help when I got home. He fixed the bed while I:

  1. pulled weeds
  2. hoed the garden beds
  3. laid down landscape fabric on each bed
  4. arranged the garlic cloves
  5. cut an x in the fabric
  6. shoved the clove in the hole (stop thinking dirty)
  7. arranged soil over

Repeated 97 more times.

Previously, this would have been no sweat, but as I planted, I looked like Tucker on, “There’s Something About Mary”  when he dropped his keys in Mary’s office (you would think there would have been a better link on YouTube – that was admittedly pretty hack!) thanks to the STUPID KNEE that Woodrow-the-beloved-bulldog-who-needs-a-helmet injured whilst we were playing bullfighter in the backyard this past winter.

The mosquitos feasted until after 7pm which is when I finally finished up.

Here’s the thing. A few years ago, I planted 65 garlic. They lasted 3 years. Just saying. So, who’s up for some scampi in, say, April?


This was the first year we enjoyed our home-grown asparagus. Pick it, snap off the bottoms, wash and dry. Lightly coat with olive oil, then sprinkle with coarse salt and hit it with your pepper grinder. Pop on the grill and keep turning until slightly bendy with a light char. Deelish. We had aspergrass every night for a week.


(#14 in the Anger Management letter series)

Dearest Peeve,

You were a cute baby chicken. We thought you were a girl. Then you started to peep a bit louder and for a bit longer than your sisters. We realized you were a boy…and decided to keep you anyway. Now, however, we seem to be on different pages. Perhaps it is adolescence and all the hormones that seem to be raging through you, however, I want to let you know that your recent behavior is unacceptable. Let me list your transgressions.

1. One of the hens has no feathers left on top of her shoulders thanks to you calling her your favorite and humping her any chance you can. She looks like she is in pain.

2. Several of the hens have bloody combs thanks to your BITING their combs during the act. This is not nice.

3. Woodrow has done nothing to you and yet you constantly chase and try to attack him. Tonight was the last straw. As I walked him on the leash, you brought the hens to come visit us. We were nowhere near you when we started out. Then you turned on Woodrow and tried to attack his face. I had no choice but to kick you. Sorry, but his eyes are more valuable than all of you. (Just the facts!)

4. Doodle is limping again. Her leg was healed until recently, thanks to your aggressive raping.

You don’t let us pet you. You don’t eat out of our hands. You hurt the girls and try to hurt our puppy. Bill from next door seems to want to protect the hens and he is a nice boy (for the most part). I think they’ll do just fine without you. So, with all of this said, I let Daddy know that it is time for you to go. I personally don’t care how it happens. You can go where Little Jerry went (a breeding farm where he gets to hump all day). You can go to away to juvie (another word for someone’s freezer). I don’t care, but it is time. Good luck, Peeve. God speed.




A letter from Jenn to the Chickens (#13 in the Anger Management Series)

Dear Chickens,

I would like to talk to you about a little place you call home. Your coop was not cheap. I clean it and keep the shavings fresh. I sprinkle a special blend of dried herbs in the nesting boxes to make sure they are free of parasites. It is a special place. It is your place. It is your place to eat, to roost and to LAY YOUR GODDAMN EGGS! Do you hear me?!?! The eggs get laid in the coop. Not under the front holly plants. Understood? Call me if you have any problems.

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