We had a backyard full of chickens. Dozens and dozens of hens and a few roosters. All behind
our little adobe house in East Los Angeles. It’s what Okies did in the big city 1952. So we had eggs. So we had fried chicken after church on Sunday. The main beneficiaries from chicken droppings were the three peach trees in the same yard. If you know what I mean. Huge sweet and juicy California peaches. Well fertilized.
This Okie enterprise only lasted for about a year or two. But, living in an urban residential neighborhood, the rooster crowing and chicken smell must have gotten to one of our neighbors. We got a call from the county health authorities and instructed us to cease and desist. So we had to sell off some of our livestock and eat the rest. One dispatched and rendered chicken was my youngest sister’s favorite pet rooster. On one Sunday when eating a plate full of fried chicken, it was revealed to my sister what we were eating was indeed her favorite poultry pal. Upon that discovery she immediately broke down in tears. Certainly understandably so. None the less it was completely eaten. I love my mom’s fried chicken.