2 weeks Ago
I don’t know what’s for dinner on this Easter Sunday, but it won’t involve a plucked bird. This isn’t a dietary change — although I’ve taken the vegetarian-ish route a few times — nor a pseudo-political statement. (One thing I miss since moving from North Carolina is an abundance of restaurants serving Southern-style fried chicken.
) This moment is about family lore weaved into stories with subplots and conflicts and even parables. If any clergy need a quick sermon, throw in a verse or chapter, add an upbeat hymn, and this tale might have a spiritual lesson or two. Call Sunday’s menu choice a tribute to the chick that became King Henry.
It’s been years since I’ve told the King Henry story. Details and timelines have eroded much like my hairline, but the story’s ending is more contentious than the stock market. Our dad grew up in western Massachusetts, and holidays fit a traditional script.
Christmas gifts were unwrapped on Christmas morning. Easter egg hunts happened on Easter morning. This continued for the four kids in our household into the teen years.
And then the chicks showed up one Easter Sunday. Even the egg hunt got delayed. We were an Air Force family, accustomed to moving often, so the number of pets we had could be described as short-term tenants — a dog that ran away often and two birds that found freedom when someone didn’t close the front door.
This is a cautionary tale that has had consequences. Please read Maggie O’Hara’s story in The Santa Fe New Mexican on health risks of giving chicks for Easter. From Maggie’s story: “Pets — including chickens and rabbits — are a lifelong responsibility, something people may not have considered before adopting a cute creature, said Ben Swan, director of volunteer engagement at Española Humane.
” Why Dad brought home six chicks remains unanswered nearly 50 years later. We lived in a tiny home in an Oklahoma City suburb. This was back before backyard chicken coops — plus an expensive espresso machine — became the trendy lifestyle choice for millennial couples living in hipster cities like Austin.
My parents weren’t millennials or hipsters. And we lived in Oklahoma, where everyone already had a chicken coop or at least a rusty truck on the property. Fast forward a year or two, and the chicks prospered in their wide open space that doubled as our tiny backyard.
That’s when we saw one chick grow into a diabolical dude. He became King Henry. And he became a family legend.
Only Dad could go into the backyard without being tormented by King Henry. Maybe it was patriarchal respect because King Henry hated the rest of us. He’d ignore you, and then suddenly break into a thundering run, beak pointed your way.
King Henry rumbled like the snarling Tyrannosaurus rex in a Jurassic Park movie. My freshman year of college happened soon thereafter. I came home one weekend to find the coop gone.
“What happened to the chickens? What happened to King Henry” I asked. Dad was home that day. He opened the freezer and pulled out a large frozen package.
“Here’s what happened,” he said. Our late Dad had a clever sense of humor masked in a calm demeanor. The frozen chicken package had no label.
Had he taken the label off as part of an elaborate setup for this joke? Or did it happen? No amount of follow-up questions helped. His expression didn’t change. I asked my sister and two brothers, who weren’t home at the time.
They didn’t know. Even Mom wasn’t saying. Years later, there were hints that Dad gave King Henry and the hens to a farmer.
Henry, the ultimate alpha, had established himself as the CEO rooster of his spacious second home, continuing to roam wherever he pleased and causing more chaos than a DOGE visit. Or did King Henry and the Easter Different become a Soprano -esque storyline, of complicated family dynamics, where no one understands the ending? Fifty years later, I’m no closer to figuring out the mysteries of life. But I am thinking about ribs for dinner.
And I always check for labels on food packages..
