Dixie Chicken

My paternal grandfather kept chickens (mostly hens) when I was growing up. The flock provided eggs until they didn't, when they switched to providing ravioli filling. Consequently, we never really grew attached to them.

I especially have less-than fond memories of the rooster who left a scar on my leg the day after my bachelor party. It made no difference to him that I was 5 feet taller and 25 times his weight; he was at the top of the chicken hierarchy, and he showed me who was boss. Not long after that he made the transition from rooster to roaster.

Cindy is the driving force behind our chicken escapades; I just make the coops. I do, however, have a chicken obsession. I admit I have poultry emotion for one special hen. It's a bird that doesn't lay eggs or sacrifice itself for grilling, yet it brings joy to me (and many others, I know).

Yes, it is Alton Brown's chicken, the one that sits on what looks like a breadbox in his kitchen. Gallus Domesticus Umbrellus. This is one rare bird. According to this page, AB purchased his at a store in North Carolina. Originally made by Department 56 in the 1990's, they are appear to be extinct and no longer available. There is a fair amount of Internet chatter regarding plans and people making their own, but nary a feather or strip of paper maché has shown up in my searchings.

It's time to take the chicken by the feathers and make one of our own. Think of it as a kinder, gentler form of genetic engineering, one that involves strips of paper and paste and won't result in farmers who save their seeds being sued by Big Agriculture.

I remember an early grade school experience where maracas were made out of light bulbs, newspaper and a glue-like substance that was edible. Well, we ate it; whether or not it was meant to be edible is another story, and might explain a few things about me. When the paper maché newsprint was dry, we banged the light bulb against a hard surface to break the glass inside, creating the rattle sound effect. Fortunately this creation doesn't need to be used as a percussion instrument, so I won't have to start with a really big light bulb.

When I get the starch off my hands I'll tell you about it. Until then, feel free to coo, cackle and cluck amongst yourselves.