This is a new column, everyone. Hello and welcome to it. It exists to celebrate things that maybe don’t seem like that big a deal but which are, if you think about it, a really freaking big deal. Under-appreciated, quietly great things. It aims to celebrate the mundane and the extraordinary that we interact with every day—the things that make me really and truly and non-ironically feel HASHTAG BLESSED. Do not be afraid of sincerity, people. Let’s dive in.
There are chickens in my backyard #blessed
So, for those not keeping up (everyone, you have things to do), I moved back to London a few weeks ago, after what I had thought was a triumphant and permanent return to the ol’ T-money. Opportunities arose that I could not say no to, and despite being more broke than maybe ever in my life, I foraged together enough for a quick trip on Air Transat, butthole of the skies, and here I am.
Where I am is the star-spangled attic/storage room of a lovely family home in Brockley (like the veg), home to two South London boys, their girlfriends, my friend Gaby, a cat named Rex, a little hut-thing that I’m nervous might be a bee’s house, and two chickens. “Sounds crowded,” you might be thinking. “You live in a storage area? What are you, a muggle Harry Potter?” you might be thinking. “How do you not know if there’s a beehive in your home?” you might also be thinking, quite fairly. But you can take all your thoughts and stuff ’em right back into your brains through your noses because it is PERFECT here.
My room is cosy and full and the skylights let in the rain and the painted ceiling stars glow in the dark, and sometimes Rex gets needy and crawls into my bed and sleeps on my feet like my old cat Mitsy used to (RIP, Mitsy, best cat ever and incredible good sport about stuff going on your head like hilarious hats). But the real stars of the show here are the chickens. They are so cool! Not as big or scary as I thought chickens were, and nowhere near as loud. They are just two coo-l little friends (pun there for you guys) (chickens don’t coo but whatever, birds) hanging out in their coo-p (hi again) pooping out FREE EGGS FOR US ALL TO EAT EVERY DAY. These guys’ butts are non-stop food dispensers. They are like vending machines except instead of calcium-sucking cola they produce eggs, nature’s most complete protein. I am going wild.
I have Googled “how many eggs per day is too many” (more than two), as well as “eggs: the perfect food?” (this search yields over 45 million results, I can only imagine all of them positive) and “more eggs recipes please I think I have scrambled my insides.” I start every morning with an egg or two and have been getting pretty innovative. It is so nice to have free, healthy food available every day, and fresh eggs really do taste better than stressed out factory chicken’s eggs. Mainly my cluck-y pals have served as a reminder of all the delicious and healthy food that comes from the earth, and have prompted me to visit the neighbourhood’s local farmer’s market to gobble up (these yolks write themselves) (CAN YOU HANDLE IT) delicious fruits and vegetables, too. I have gone on more than one rant about “the edible gifts Nature gives us” that I would not blame the listeners for thinking I was on drugs while giving, but I’m just riding that sweet chicken high and I’m never coming down.
My life is pretty uncertain at the moment, but every day these guys absorb sunlight and food and turn it into perfect little orbs of nutrition. How amazing is that? I feel like the chickens have a very good handle on life: they’re generous, patient, and comfortable being anthropomorphized by lonely Canadians. So thank you, my winged friends. Even though I’m going to be technically homeless in about two weeks, and I don’t have a working phone, you make me feel #blessed.