On our way up First Street the weekend before Mardi Gras, we ran into chickens promenading around a Garden District mansion. Today, I spotted chickens on Louisiana about a block from St. Charles. My good friend Jacqui has wanted chickens forever. She is supposedly a bit peeved now that another mutual friend of ours has acquired a chicken coop complete with cackle. I wish I could say I understand, but I don’t. I love eggs, don’t get me wrong, but captive birds freak me out. It’s not genetic, because my aunt Anna once wrestled one of her favorite hens, Lilla Brun (Little Brown), from a hawk’s death grip and did not give up when she saw the hen’s insides through a huge gash—she simply ran into the kitchen and sewed her favorite fowl up with needle and thread. Lilla Brun is still alive today, and this was years ago. Amazing, right? Well, the only time anyone would ever see me run inside a kitchen holding a chicken would be if I was in a really big hurry to make coq au vin.

I was joking with a friend this afternoon, saying that the only way I could ever keep chickens would be if I could name them after the dish they eventually would become, just to keep me motivated. Come here, Lil’ Stew, come, come.