June 2015



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.

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(#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.

Sincerely,

Mommy

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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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Love,

Mommy