Each morning I feel popular. The sound of the metal food tins clanking is enough to alert the hens that breakfast will be served momentarily. They start cackling their "hello"s and "hurry up"s even as I walk toward each pen with cups of layer crumble, fresh water and if they are lucky, food scraps. There are times when I arrive home to find a bag of wilted lettuce, or overly ripe pears on my porch. Friends know my girls like treats. Today I brought them the peelings and cores from an apple pie, with a bit too much cinnamon. You know how sometime you shake the canister and it goes sprinkle, sprinkle, dump.

The unspoken rule among poultry is that when something unusual shows up you eat first and ask questions later. If you pause long enough to wonder what this new offering is it will be gone. Probably they trust that everything the nice lady with boots gives them will be delicious. At times it worries me, like after I have been reading lists on line of what NOT to feed your chickens.

What if I accidentally poisoned them? That would be awful. 

Sometimes I wonder about what television dishes out. I know that once I decide to watch a series, which is not that often, I turn it on without the merest effort to review its contents. This is my show, so it will be good. 

But sometimes the plot takes a dive into what I consider to be unhealthy. People make choices that look easy breezy on film, but in real life are a kind of slow acting toxin.