A Few Gentle Observations on the Keeping of Hens

From the Cottage Garden, for my Mermaid Darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society

My dear mermaid darlings,

There are certain affections one carries from childhood which, if left undisturbed long enough, quietly return to us in adulthood as though they had only stepped away for a short walk about the garden. My fondness for hens has always been such a thing.

Long before my little patch of cottage living came into its present form, I imagined a life where animals wandered peacefully about the garden — rabbits in the grass, hens scratching politely beneath the hedges, and the gentle murmur of creatures who seemed quite content simply to exist beside one another.

At last, in the year 2016, that small dream began to take shape when my first little gathering of hens arrived. I remember them still — the curious tilt of their heads, the dignified way they inspected the garden beds, and the soft rustle of feathers that soon became as familiar to me as the creaking of old floorboards in the cottage.

Since that time, I have kept hens in much the same manner, and I confess the methods have served us rather well for nearly a decade.

If I may offer one gentle suggestion to those who dream of keeping animals of their own, it would be this: whenever possible, welcome them into your care from the very beginning of their lives.

Young creatures possess a remarkable openness to the world around them, and the habits of their little hearts are shaped most beautifully during those earliest days.

It may sound whimsical — and perhaps it is —, but I have long believed that animals respond quite readily to the expectations placed upon them with affection and consistency. One might call it a form of quiet manifestation, and in addition, I simply say that creatures, much like people, flourish when they are loved as though they already belong.

Over the years, I have welcomed kittens who grew into remarkably gentle companions, roosters who escorted me faithfully to the postbox like small feathered sentries, and hens who seemed to regard our daily conversations as perfectly natural. I kiss their soft heads, speak to them kindly, and treat them as fellow residents of the cottage grounds rather than mere livestock.

Not everyone approaches their animals in quite this way, of course, though I cannot help believing that affection improves nearly everything in life — hens included.

As for their care, I have kept their nourishment pleasantly simple and nourishing, gathering a few humble staples in generous quantities and preparing their food with a bit of patience.

I ferment their feed, which keeps their digestion lively and their health strong. Among the ingredients I keep on hand are whole corn, oats, black sunflower seeds, and a rather surprising addition: fish-flavoured kitten kibble, which provides the extra protein hens require to remain vigorous and productive. Their own eggshells, once dried and returned to the compost, serve as a fine source of calcium, while oyster shells provide additional strength for egg laying.

During the warmer months, they enjoy oats, the occasional crust of bread, and whatever small treasures they discover while roaming about the grounds. In winter, however, I favour whole corn — never the cracked sort — for the simple reason that whole kernels retain their natural oils and nourishment. As hens grow their winter down and continue laying, their little bodies require greater stores of energy, and whole corn provides it most admirably.

Water, I have learned, deserves equal attention. Chickens share many ailments through stagnant water, so I refresh their drinking supply each day without fail. The larger water pails receive a thorough cleaning twice weekly, and when I first refill them, I add a single drop or two of tea tree oil, which seems to keep the water pleasantly fresh.

To discourage mites and other unwelcome guests, I scatter diatomaceous earth throughout their coop and dusting areas, allowing the hens to keep themselves quite comfortably groomed.

Their feed remains available throughout the day, though in winter I offer a small cup of whole corn in the morning and another at dusk, which they accept with considerable enthusiasm.

And if ever the flock appears in need of a cheerful pick-me-up, I must confess that the humble hot dog — cut into small pieces — works wonders for their spirits. It is hardly a grand culinary offering, yet the hens receive it with a delight that suggests one has presented them with a royal banquet.

Such is the quiet life of hens in the cottage yard.

They wander beneath the sun, gossip softly among themselves, and lay their eggs with the steady reliability of creatures who ask very little in return for their companionship.

For my part, I cannot imagine the garden without them. They are small characters in the unfolding story of this place — companions to the rabbits, subjects for the occasional page of a storybook, and constant reminders that a simple life, tended with affection, may hold more charm than one ever expected.

And so, my dear mermaid darlings, should you ever feel the quiet longing for hens of your own, do not dismiss the notion too quickly. A small flock has a way of turning an ordinary patch of earth into something that feels rather like a story.

A Small Provision List for the Keeping of Happy Hens

For my mermaid darlings who wish to gather their supplies, if you should ever decide to welcome a few hens into your own garden life, these are the humble provisions I keep quietly on hand throughout the year. They are simple things, easily found, and they have served my little flocks faithfully for nearly a decade.

For their daily nourishment

• Whole corn (never the cracked variety)

• Oats

• Black sunflower seeds

• Fish-flavoured kitten kibble (for protein)

• Oyster shell (for strong eggs)

From the kitchen

• Dried and crushed eggshells (returned to them for calcium)

• Bread crusts (especially in the warmer months)

For occasional cheerful treats

• Small pieces of hot dogs or little sausages

(a most enthusiastic reward among hens)

For their health and comfort

• Diatomaceous earth: Sprinkle in their food daily and scatter about their run (to discourage mites and pests)

• Tea tree oil (one or two drops for fresh water)

For winter strength

• Extra whole corn morning and evening

(as hens grow their winter down and require more warmth and energy)

A small note from the garden

Always keep fresh water available to your hens, and change it daily if you are able. Their health is greatly protected by clean water and simple care.

And above all, speak kindly to them, handle them gently, and raise them from their earliest days if possible. Hens who grow up in affection become the most charming little companions of mine that anyone could wish.

Most affably yours 'til my next enchanting swim,

Lady Raquel

On Temperament and the Taking Off of Costumes

My dearest Mermaid Darlings, and my cherished Stillwater Petticoat Society,

There is a question I am asked with such regular cheerfulness that I have come to anticipate it before it is even spoken, and it is this: “Do you do reenactments?” — as though I might at any moment unpin my collar, slip from my petticoat, and reveal a modern creature concealed beneath the muslin.

I always smile, for I know no harm is meant, and yet I answer swiftly, almost protectively, “No, my love — I simply live this way,” and in that gentle correction there is more tenderness than defensiveness, for what I am safeguarding is not an outfit but an orientation of the soul.

I have dressed thus since my youth, long before hashtags gathered around the word cottage like bees to clover, long before slow living was packaged into square frames and sold back to women as salvation, long before linen aprons became profitable and enamel basins photogenic; I wore the skirts when it was peculiar, when it invited curious glances in grocery aisles, when no applause accompanied it and no algorithm carried it further than the hedgerow of my own little life.

And so, if I am to be entirely honest with you — and I should like to be — I have found myself, at times, unsettled by the manner in which certain aesthetics are donned and then quietly set aside when the season turns, for it is not the painting of nails nor the dining in cheerful establishments nor the seeking of modern comforts that stirs my spirit into disquiet, but rather the sensation that what is presented and what is lived do not always walk hand in hand.

I have observed, with no small measure of introspection, that what troubles me is not indulgence but incongruence, not modernity but misalignment, for when an image of rustic self-sufficiency is curated whilst another’s hands and the chickens tend the garden are cared for by an elder relative whose labour goes unnamed, something in my nervous system registers a soft fracture, as though the spell were cast in one breath and broken in the next.

And perhaps the truest confession is this: I have paid for this life in courage.

I wore the dresses before they were admired.

I chose slowness before it was admired.

I lived quietly before quiet became enviable.

There is a human reflex, is there not, that winces ever so slightly when others are applauded for what one has carried privately for decades, and I would be disingenuous were I to pretend that such a thought has never brushed against my heart like a cool draft beneath a door.

Yet I do not write this from superiority, nor from bitterness, nor from a desire to indict anyone for experimentation, for many souls are simply trying on identities in the way one tries on bonnets before discovering which shade best suits her complexion, and there is no wickedness in searching; what I am describing is something subtler — a devotion to coherence.

It is coherence that I revere.

It is continuity that I find beautiful.

When I think of Tasha Tudor — whose name has become nearly synonymous with storybook domesticity — I do not think first of her pinafores, nor her goats, nor her Vermont garden in bloom, but of the fact that she did not remove her way of living when the visitors departed; she illustrated on Tuesdays and baked on Thursdays and milked on Saturdays with equal sincerity, not because anyone watched but because it was consonant with her temperament.

Temperament, my loves, cannot be sustained as theatre for long.

One may wear simplicity as linen for a season, one may caption spirituality in sepia tones, one may curate slow living between salon appointments and curated dinners, yet continuity has a way of revealing what is costume and what is constitution, for eventually the tone alters, the devotion thins, the aesthetic shifts with the wind, and the life rearranges itself back into its native rhythm.

And here is where my vulnerability unfurls most tenderly before you; when someone asks if I reenact, I feel, beneath my smile, a quiet ache that what has been my refuge might be mistaken for performance, that my orientation might be reduced to theatre, that the devotion of decades could be mistaken for trend participation, and perhaps that is why I bristle when I see the aesthetic worn lightly — because I fear being folded into the same misunderstanding.

I do not wish to be confused with costume.

I wish to be known for temperament.

There was a season when cottagecore swelled like a tide, and many rode it beautifully and briefly, and some were carried swiftly into visibility, and I remained upon the shore in the same apron I had always worn, neither amplified nor diminished, simply continuing, and if I am to confess another small and human truth, I have wondered in softer hours why the wave crowned others and passed me by, though I had been standing there long before it arrived.

Yet tides are dramatic, and shorelines endure.

I was not building a moment.

I was building a life.

And lives are slower.

So if something within me tightens when aesthetic devotion appears to toggle with popularity, it is not because I begrudge anyone her manicure or her modernity, but because I hold sacred the integration of image and embodiment, and I have learned through many trials that stability is not forged in applause but in repetition.

Perhaps what unsettles me most is not falseness in others but the fear of being mistaken for it myself.

And so I write this not to accuse, but to clarify my own heart before you, for I would rather be a woman of quiet continuity than a fleeting spectacle, rather rooted than radiant for a moment and gone the next, rather misunderstood in my steadfastness than celebrated for a costume I intend to remove.

If I am a Victorian mermaid, it is not because it photographs prettily, but because it soothes my nervous system, steadies my spirit, and aligns with the inner architecture of who I have always been.

And that, my dearest darlings, is not theatre.

It is home.

Most affably yours 'til my next enchanting swim, LR