His name was Colin.

Today, Yoder Husband and I headed over to Johnson Heritage Farms to pick up some chicken.  A lot of chicken.  Local, organic, free-range(ish), certified USDA chicken.

This was all very Portlandian.  We were totally the sketch where Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein badger their poor waitress into the history of the chicken they’re about to order…whose name was Colin…and are compelled to get the full biography on Colin, review his diet, look over his papers, and meet the fcking farmer who raised him.

Yep – that was us.

Now, Yoder Husband and I are not really known for latching on to a specific philosophy about where our food comes from or what it contains.  Irresponsible?  Probably.  Lazy?  Definitely.  It’s not that we don’t know the implications of not buying local, organic, blah blah blah.  We just never really made it a priority.  And – honestly – there are enough people out there waving their holier-than-thou banners when it comes to food choices, being all judgey and all “I see your vegan quinoa salad and raise you a raw gluten-free brownie with chia seeds.” Irritating.  And Douche-y.  So, I actually avoid the whole responsible food conversation at all costs.

But here I am writing a post about visiting a local farm where I met and bought a boat-load of responsibly raised chickens.  Yes – I am a walking contradiction in most facets of my life (Just ask Husband, who I yell at for not putting away his socks as I trip over a pile of my own shoes and week-old gym clothes…)


So, at the lovely Johnson estate, we got a tour of the farm, met the chickens and turkeys we’d be knoshing on later, along with the farmers’ pet goat (Penny – adorable), and learned that the only reason the birds had a fence around them was to save them from the badgers and foxes that liked to murder them in the middle of the night.  (Hence, the “ish” in the aforementioned “free-range.”)   I do have to admit, it was kind of awesome being able to see the whole chicken process start to finish.  It takes out that weird moment when slicing open a package of Gold’N’Plump, wondering what the hell was pumped into these chicken breasts to make them so huge.  (Seriously, have you noticed that?  The size is downright freakish.)

I guess the point is that Jenny, the farmer, was awesome.  Penny, the goat, was adorable.  And it was easy-peasy to pick up 60 pounds of delicious chicken for a completely reasonable cost.  I can’t wait to eat Colin.


2 thoughts on “His name was Colin.

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