r/Chicken

My husband and I have five 3-week-old chicks (buff and chocolate Orpington). They are currently in our garage in a large playpen with a zipper mesh top. But they are growing so fast and we are quickly planning the coop. We live in a neighborhood, so there will never be a risk of exceeding the maximum limit of six chickens. We have never owned chickens before, so we are learning as we go, but we want to set up the best environment for them. The coop will be in our fenced backyard. Since hawks are common in our area, we would appreciate any advice on protecting them and ideas for an outdoor run. Are there any dos and don'ts for setting up coops so we do it right and avoid missing anything important? We live in the south so harsh winters aren't a worry. More harsh summers that I am more worried about. All advice is very appreciated!

Pretty much the title. Has anyone experienced this? I’ve been to four nice restaurants since living in nyc and the chicken at all of them has the exact same taste (prepared different). The taste is like chemically— like what I imagine hormones taste like. Is this just me? My nyc friends don’t notice it bc they’re just so used to it. LMKKKK

Ive never heard about this before and ive never tasted chicken or eggs from outside of Lebanon, but recently expats and friends from Saudi and UAE have been saying that chicken and eggs are inedible in lebanon straight up inedible, they are stating that they tried many different stores and same thing. Some am curious to know if that’s true or anyone have faced or heard about this.
(Ps: they were talking about raw chicken and eggs that you get to cook with, not any restaurant whatsoever)

สูตรไก่ยัดไส้ง่ายๆ 😋

I don't know what's best. Roasting the chicken, eating the chicken, or standing barefoot the next day in the kitchen haze, tearing at cold carcass scraps before making a broth that could raise the fucking dead.

But maybe that's the point. You don't pick a favourite hymn in church. You sing the whole damn thing.

It starts with the roast. You treat that bird like it owes you money. Salted, maybe brined. Maybe not. Doesn't matter. You slide it into the oven like you're sending it to war.

And when it comes out? That skin is blistered, crackling, the colour of a Marlboro filter left in the sun. Juices pooling. Legs just begging to be pulled apart. You carve it like you've been yelled at in a hot French kitchen by a guy named Jean-Luc who calls everyone "imbecile" and smokes Winfield Reds through his nose. You eat with your fingers. You burn your mouth. You nod through the pain. That's love.

You don't need silverware for chicken. You need instinct. Greasy fingertips, a stack of paper towels, and enough self-respect to know that anyone reaching for the breast first either grew up wrong or has never known hardship. The thighs are where the truth lives. The oysters are hidden treasure. The wings are the cook's tax. And whoever roasted the bird gets first crack at the crispy skin hanging near the cavity. That's international law as far as I'm concerned.

Then later, when the guests are gone and the adrenaline's bled out, you circle back. The fridge glows like some back-alley confession booth. You stand there, half-dressed, half-drunk, chewing on a cold wing like a feral thing.

It's better cold. You know it. I know it. The chicken knew it. The fat has set. The seasoning has settled in. The juices have nowhere left to run. Cold roast chicken at one in the morning is one of those universal experiences that cuts across class, politics, religion and common sense. Presidents have done it. Dishwashers have done it. Line cooks have done it leaning over milk crates behind restaurants at midnight, still smelling faintly of fryer oil and regret.

That's not leftovers. That's penance. That's communion. And if you've got half a loaf of bread nearby, some mustard, maybe a pickle that's seen better days, you've accidentally made one of the greatest sandwiches known to civilisation. No culinary school required. No foam. No tweezers. No twelve-word menu description involving "essence" or "soil." Just chicken. Honest, beautiful, unpretentious chicken.

But the resurrection, that's the real gospel.

You take what's left: bones, bits, cartilage, wing tips, a lonely drumstick nobody claimed, a lemon squeezed into exhaustion, parsley stems hanging on for dear life. Toss it all into a stockpot like you're starting a spell. Onions you forgot about. Garlic that's more sprout than clove. Carrots that have become suspiciously flexible. Celery so old it has achieved enlightenment. Maybe a bay leaf. Maybe peppercorns. Maybe nothing.

Because stock has always been an act of faith.

You cover it with water, turn the heat low, and walk away. Hours pass. The house changes. The air thickens. The smell creeps into curtains, clothes, memory. It smells like grandmothers. It smells like snow days. It smells like being sick as a kid and somehow feeling safe because somebody, somewhere, was making soup.

You skim. You taste. You add a little salt. And what comes out? That broth? That's not soup. That's redemption. That's a second chance. That's every cook who's ever refused to throw anything useful away because they understood something important long before sustainability became fashionable: respect the animal, respect the ingredient, respect the work it took to get here.

A chicken gives itself to you in chapters. The roast. The feast. The midnight scavenging. The sandwich. The stock. The risotto. The noodle bowl. The ramen you swear was accidental but somehow ends up tasting like you've spent ten years studying under a monk in Osaka. One bird. Five meals. A week of memories. That's economy. That's craftsmanship. That's poetry disguised as dinner.

So don't ask me what the best part is. That's like choosing your favourite scene in a Scorsese film. Every act hits. Every cut bleeds. It's like picking the best dive bar in Tokyo. Each one is seedy, sacred, and exactly what you needed at the time. It's like asking a musician which note matters most. None of them. All of them. The beauty is in hearing the whole song.

You just ride the arc, respect the craft, and thank the bird for its service. Because chicken, done properly, isn't food. It's ritual. It's comfort. It's survival. It's generosity. It's what people cook when they want to feed someone they love, impress someone they admire, or repair a week that kicked the absolute shit out of them.

And if there is a heaven for cooks, I suspect it smells faintly of rendered chicken fat, burnt fingertips, black pepper, old cutting boards and stock quietly simmering in the background. You've got this, Chef!

Amen.

— The Cheeky Chef.

Let’s ignore the fact that chicken fingers are childish to begin with please