All about chickens: Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk

Now, in addition to deer, elk, mountain lions and black bears, our fair city is about to be populated by chickens.

That's fine. I think we probably have enough mental counselors to deal with the fragile children of our town who will be traumatized by the ritual wringing of the Old Red Hen's neck on Sunday mornings in time to be placed on a platter for the midday meal after giving thanks to Almighty God for our bounty.

You think not? You think there are some folks who want to keep up to six hens (no loud roosters, thank you) just as companions and egg layers? OK, think that, if you want. It's still a free city.

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There were hens in the chicken house behind the old farmhouse at the Killough Valley farm where I grew up in the Ozarks over yonder. And roosters, too.

We called our feathered friends "fox bait."

Yes, they provided eggs and wishbones, but eventually the flock would be decimated by clever beasts with bushy tails.

In the spring, a chicken-to-fox balance was restored when you ordered baby chicks fresh out of the shell. These chicks were delivered by Mr. Grassom, the postman on our rural delivery route (and the chain-smoking preacher on Sundays at Oak Grove Church on the hilltop between Greenwood and Webb valleys).

It was important to meet the mailman at the mailbox on the highway about a mile from home, because baby chicks need special care. For one thing, they need to be kept warm.

Soon the chicks would be big enough to put in the chicken yard outside the henhouse. This resumed the annual cycle of new chicks, more eggs, fox incursions and an occasional visit from a chicken hawk just to remind us that nature is both beautiful and violent.

I wonder what provision our city will make for foxes and hawks, which will certainly increase if there is a chicken in every pot.

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The last time I was served fried chicken that had been freely roaming early that morning was during a visit, in the late 1980s to the kitchen of my stepmother, also over yonder.

While there was an indoor bathroom in the house, there was no modern plumbing in the kitchen. A spring flowed under the house, and there was a pump for cooking and dishwashing.

There also was, in my stepmother's kitchen, a fairly modern Maytag gas range, but my stepmother preferred, as I have mentioned before, to use the wood cook stove that also occupied the low-ceiling room. Even in midsummer, the wood stove turned out sinfully delicious cornbread and other goodies, including fried chicken.

It had been years and years since I last tasted really fresh chicken. I knew at the first bite that I was tasting a sample of heaven's smorgasbord.

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A couple of weeks ago I wondered, in this column, about young families who dine out fairly often at somewhat costly restaurants. I compared these eating-out experiences to my own childhood and young parenthood, which equated to never experiencing anything but home-cooked meals and rarely taking our growing sons out to eat.

This week, my fact checker, Steve, found a brief mention in Time magazine that said "Millennials spend almost half their food money at restaurants."

I had no idea.

Here's the rest of the magazine item:

"According to a Food Institute analysis of the Department of Agriculture's 2014 expenditure data, millennnials spend 44 percent of their food money -- $2,921 per year on average -- on eating out, up more than 10 percent from 2010."

There's a little game I play when my wife and I go out to eat. I pick a table, usually one with children and adults, and try to estimate what the tab will be for the hungry group.

It's a lot. Now Time magazine has given us some idea of exactly how much.

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Before I came to Cape Girardeau more than 20 years ago, I worked for a media company that owned daily newspapers, radio and TV stations, cable systems and the broadcast network for the Kansas City Royals.

When the eldest son of the company's founder became president and CEO, he methodically set out on visits to every company-owned property. He was known for being a penny-pincher, and when a visit was scheduled at your property, you were cautioned to order only water to drink at the inevitable lunch with the boss.

So, that's what we did when he came to Maryville, Missouri. The waitress took our modest food requests with her eyebrows arching higher and higher as each of us said, "Just water, please."

The company president ordered last, and to our surprise he asked for iced tea. Not water.

After the waitress left, the boss grinned and said: "Don't believe everything you hear."

Good advice, especially these days.

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.