Over at Golden Grain Farm, Everett would have been willing to keep the previous owner's hens to earn a few dollars selling eggs. He likes birds, but since he's gone all of July and I am unwilling to deal with livestock, and Scott didn't want the extra work on top of his already full days, Violet sold her layers before she moved out.

For Scott, things changed somewhere between then and now, because 100 of the little critters have been purchased and put into the chicken coop. Apparently these will be split between our three families— us, his parents, and his brother's.

Everett was in there making friends with the homely creatures one day last week; I waited outside the door. It's not that I don't like chickens. It's just that I don't like them much. I don't like the smell of them. I don't like the look of this kind of chicken. And I couldn't care less if I never ate chicken again. I don't dislike the taste, but I can take it or leave it, and if there's a buffet full of salads alongside I'll usually leave it.

These won't lay eggs; in the fall or late summer they will be loaded up into a truck and taken to the most local Hutterite colony to be butchered. Poor buggers.

***

"Everett!" I call to him as I climb out of the tub.
He hollers back "What?" gruffly.
I towel off and come out in my housecoat and say "That is not the way to answer me! You should reply, in your best opera voice (and I demonstrate at full volume), "What can I do for you, my Sweet Little Mama?"

Imagining that, I break down in giggles; he rolls his eyes. I tell him he should try it when Scott's here, or Emil, or some company, and as we visualize their incredulous reactions we both start to cackle.

Ahhh... the fun we could have around here, if only that boy would play along.

This reminds me of how I had both Emil and Everett trained to address me as "Sweet-Scented One" when they were small. Those were the days, I tell you.