Back when I kept chickens I felt popular. The sound of the metal food tins clanking was enough to alert the hens that breakfast would be served momentarily. They started cackling their "hello"s and "hurry up"s even as I walked toward each pen with cups of layer crumble, fresh water and if they were lucky, food scraps. There were times when I arrived home to find a bag of wilted lettuce, or overly ripe pears on my porch. Friends knew my girls liked treats. Once 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 trusted that everything the nice lady with muddy boots gave them would be delicious. At times it worried me, like after I had 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 much effort to review its contents. 

 

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.

 

This happened recently. I loved the first episode of a mini series and was grateful for the thoughtful characters. But by the middle of the second it plunged into scenes I cannot erase from my mind even now. It feels like I swallowed half rotten potatoes. 

 

I guess I need to cleanse my mental palette with some of my favorites. The ones where kindness reigns and relationships stay out of the mud.