Our hen is having an identity crisis. We left the chickens alone (besides a friend feeding them daily) for six weeks and now the oddest thing has happened. When we returned, Diablo, the only chicken we named out of the three, had doubled in size. Her beady yellow eyes which glare fearsomely at you, earned her the name. The other black hen is not nearly as greedy as her, but the rooster has always treated his 2 hens equally as far as courtship and calling them to share food. Only the smaller hen pops out her egg every morning much to Theo’s delight, but Diablo doesn’t seem to have the same desires to contribute towards our breakfast.
Well, the other morning, we were still in bed; I was enjoying listening to the birds and filtering through my thoughts which these days are limited to creating fun lesson plans, or recalling skipping songs from files which have long ago been abandoned to file 13 in the bottom drawer of my whiskey saturated brain. Anyway I have limited time to arrange these thoughts before Theo turns the radio on to listen to the traffic report in Cape Town or what poultice Tannie Sannie recommends to treat Boet’s recurring athlete’s foot calamity on Radio Sonder Grense. So there we were, 30 seconds into some or other Afrikaans singer belting out something about “ek wil styf langs jou lepel lê” when the rooster gave his usual “I got it all this morning crow” when clear as daylight, we heard an answering call in a deep voice right outside the door to our rondavel.
It definitely was not the neighbour’s rooster answering as used to before we left for Cape Town and I can only assume that he was eaten over the holidays, (probably to celebrate someone being circumcised) and now our rooster has to strain his ears to listen for an answer from another adversary over the hill. Anyway, Theo jumped up to investigate and true as bob, Diablo was out there crowing. WTF? Was it possible? Was Diablo messing with our rooster’s manhood, or more perturbing, was she a he? Surely the rooster would not have tolerated a rival on his property? She’s bigger than him these days and he can’t catch her for his mandatory bonk but since she has started crowing, the rooster is disgusted with her and he and the other hen have teemed up and poor Diablo is being ostracised. Well all I know is if it turns out that we have two roosters, one potentially to reach the size of a goose on steroids, then one of them will have to end up in the cooking pot and what a pleasure it will be to eat meat other than Russians.
I’m gatvol of Russian sausages. Theo’s culinary abilities have been put to the test in his attempts to disguise the taste of yet another meal of processed Russians. Slicing, dicing, braaing, boiling, drying and the latest way of mincing them and adding to soups, stews, and bolognaise served with rice, samp and beans or pap have been on the menu every day since we’ve returned. He has yet to pickle them. Last night he made lasagne, with home made pasta which was yummy so maybe there are more inventions to come.
Anyway, the chickens better figure out who’s who, since the latest advice is to take our rooster to the 90 year old mama who lives over the hill and who specialises in castrating roosters. This apparently will curb his lusty desires and become less aggressive but if you ask me, all that will do is encourage Diablo to blow her own horn. I researched this rooster castrating business and apparently it’s not as bizarre as I imagined, but slicing a chicken’s groin open to pop out his internal goonies just doesn’t sound right at all. I’ll rather let nature play out its course and if that doesn’t work, I could seek out a Sangoma for advice regarding our chicken problem. Chances are I’ll be told to bury a bundle of herbs in the yard to restore harmony in the coop. That seems to be the general advice I’m told, whether to heal a sick person, change your bad luck, or get rid of a persistent itch in your groin, burying a bundle of herbs will do the trick I’m told.
On the other hand, the Sangoma might cleverly tell me to bury a dead chicken instead and that would be the end of my problem of having two roosters. The next step is finding someone who will catch it, slaughter it and pluck it cos I sure as hell am not gonna be able to. I’m holding thumbs we will find two eggs in their coop some time soon.
Well, the other morning, we were still in bed; I was enjoying listening to the birds and filtering through my thoughts which these days are limited to creating fun lesson plans, or recalling skipping songs from files which have long ago been abandoned to file 13 in the bottom drawer of my whiskey saturated brain. Anyway I have limited time to arrange these thoughts before Theo turns the radio on to listen to the traffic report in Cape Town or what poultice Tannie Sannie recommends to treat Boet’s recurring athlete’s foot calamity on Radio Sonder Grense. So there we were, 30 seconds into some or other Afrikaans singer belting out something about “ek wil styf langs jou lepel lê” when the rooster gave his usual “I got it all this morning crow” when clear as daylight, we heard an answering call in a deep voice right outside the door to our rondavel.
It definitely was not the neighbour’s rooster answering as used to before we left for Cape Town and I can only assume that he was eaten over the holidays, (probably to celebrate someone being circumcised) and now our rooster has to strain his ears to listen for an answer from another adversary over the hill. Anyway, Theo jumped up to investigate and true as bob, Diablo was out there crowing. WTF? Was it possible? Was Diablo messing with our rooster’s manhood, or more perturbing, was she a he? Surely the rooster would not have tolerated a rival on his property? She’s bigger than him these days and he can’t catch her for his mandatory bonk but since she has started crowing, the rooster is disgusted with her and he and the other hen have teemed up and poor Diablo is being ostracised. Well all I know is if it turns out that we have two roosters, one potentially to reach the size of a goose on steroids, then one of them will have to end up in the cooking pot and what a pleasure it will be to eat meat other than Russians.
I’m gatvol of Russian sausages. Theo’s culinary abilities have been put to the test in his attempts to disguise the taste of yet another meal of processed Russians. Slicing, dicing, braaing, boiling, drying and the latest way of mincing them and adding to soups, stews, and bolognaise served with rice, samp and beans or pap have been on the menu every day since we’ve returned. He has yet to pickle them. Last night he made lasagne, with home made pasta which was yummy so maybe there are more inventions to come.
Anyway, the chickens better figure out who’s who, since the latest advice is to take our rooster to the 90 year old mama who lives over the hill and who specialises in castrating roosters. This apparently will curb his lusty desires and become less aggressive but if you ask me, all that will do is encourage Diablo to blow her own horn. I researched this rooster castrating business and apparently it’s not as bizarre as I imagined, but slicing a chicken’s groin open to pop out his internal goonies just doesn’t sound right at all. I’ll rather let nature play out its course and if that doesn’t work, I could seek out a Sangoma for advice regarding our chicken problem. Chances are I’ll be told to bury a bundle of herbs in the yard to restore harmony in the coop. That seems to be the general advice I’m told, whether to heal a sick person, change your bad luck, or get rid of a persistent itch in your groin, burying a bundle of herbs will do the trick I’m told.
On the other hand, the Sangoma might cleverly tell me to bury a dead chicken instead and that would be the end of my problem of having two roosters. The next step is finding someone who will catch it, slaughter it and pluck it cos I sure as hell am not gonna be able to. I’m holding thumbs we will find two eggs in their coop some time soon.
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