We’re here in Cincinnati and although I haven’t found a chicken yet, I have found a reason for what I do.
After Trevor had his 2 hour gymnastics practice session this morning, we went to an outdoor square in order to have a pastry and a (long) overdue cup of coffee. As we were sitting at our table, we heard a little boy call out “A rooster! A rooster, mommy!”
Trevor and I both looked at each other in that “No, way, there’s a rooster here??!!” way. I mean what are the odds, that we would go five states away from New Hampshire only to find a male chicken in our midst?
We excitedly looked around, ready to pay homage and respect to the rooster in Cincinnati.
What we found instead was this:
That is what the little boy called a rooster.
And that is why I do what I do. I write about chickens because people have lost their connection to their food and the animals that supply that food. People don’t remember that food needs to be grown and animals that provide our food need to be cared for. We’re all in this together.
They don’t know that we can learn so many lessons from living with our food and taking care of it.
And as long as little kids think that pigeons are roosters in Cincinnati, I think I may still have a very good reason to do my job.
