I am the Chicken Queen?

 

"I am the Chicken Queen! I speak for all to hear!"

 

 

It was a perfect day to celebrate a friend's birthday at the beach. The combination of hot sun and cool breeze, and popsicles and feathers, was delightful.  But when the party ends and it's time to return to your daily life, you cast aside the feathers and frosting. You are no longer the Chicken Queen, just a five year old who is wearing more low tide mud on her feet than shoe.

 

So home we went, to foot washing and food prep. I removed as much sugar and odor as possible from the surface of my kids, and sent them off to play while I got to work in the kitchen. As I rummaged through the bin of spices I affectionately refer to as a "spice rack" I came to the realization that we were almost out of vanilla extract. This shouldn't come as a surprise since, when baking, I add it to any recipe that omits it and double it in the recipes smart enough to have included it. But, surprise or not, it was a tragic realization and it needed to be addressed as soon as possible.

 

 Supermarkets sell vanilla in humorously small bottles, so I make my own. I learned from a friend that this is the proper thing to do when your vanilla habit has reached this degree. That or get help for your addiction. Since using exorbitant amounts of vanilla makes delicious treats for my friends and family I don't think anyone is likely to stage an intervention. So, after my husband got home from work and helped me wrangle dinner into the oven, and kids into the house, I ran to the liquor store for cheap vodka.

 

What a lovely time I had there! Everyone was so friendly and helpful. Store employees and even other shoppers were all smiling at me. I wondered, are people who are about to get drunk always this chipper? Or could it be how I am totally rocking this blue muumuu inspired sundress? Or maybe I have somehow wandered out of Boston and ended up someplace where friendliness isn't questioned? I carried this warm fuzzy feeling and a brown paper bag all the way home with me, chatting with grinning neighbors along the way.

 

When I walked in the door, my son looked up at me and smiled. "You're still wearing your feather!" he chuckled. I reached up and pulled a bright blue feather out of my hair where it had been sticking up, jauntily and ridiculously, since the party on the beach. Blue, to match my dress. A big blue feather wagging happily over my head, bringing smiles to friends and strangers alike.

I am the Chicken Queen?