“I am moving to the country to become a chicken farmer’s wife. I am moving to the country to become a chicken farmer’s wife.” No matter how many times I say it to myself, it sounds surreal. To think: I am leaving my Chicago hipster neighborhood full of fixed-gear bicycles, bars with alcohol slushies, and every type of cuisine available for delivery, to move to a chicken farm that is not technically even in the nearby town of 3,000 people. I am still unclear whether we can even get pizza delivered. But I’m getting ahead of myself. First, some background.
Ken was the first person I met through a popular online dating app where you sign up to meet the love of your life, based on complex matchmaking algorithms. Just kidding, it was Tinder. I met my husband-to-be on Tinder. He was not a chicken farmer back then, and neither of us was looking for a life partner. But you know how it is – these things have a tendency to happen when you least expect them. Like buying a laying hen only to find out she’s broody (do I sound like I know what I’m talking about? Thanks, Google!). Since then, our relationship has been anything but traditional. I met his parents three weeks in, he met half of mine after one month, and flew to Atlanta to meet the other half two months into dating. We got engaged after knowing each other for five months. We are getting married this fall after almost exactly one year and four months together. People who don’t know us are often surprised by, even critical of, the rocket-like velocity of our relationship – but those closest to us understand that this is the only way the story could end (or really, begin).
But what they would probably not have guessed is that two urbanites, who have lived in Chicago for ten (me) and six (him) years, would be moving down to the family farm to try their hand at chicken farming and country life. Ken’s father passed away this past February and while moving was something we had always talked of doing eventually, the universe had something different in mind. We are moving just three weeks before our wedding. We are going to be third generation farmers, taking over from Jim (and Bertie) Griggs, who took it over from the original Kenneth (and Iris) Griggs.
I have no idea what the future holds for us or how the rest of our story will unfold. All I know is that I am equal parts thrilled and terrified; nervous and excited. We are on the threshold of our biggest adventure together yet (and there have been many). This move is a total leap of faith. My hope, in documenting this, is to share the weird, hilarious, interesting, scary and joyous days ahead. It also gives me a space to explore the new kitchen experiments and various farm-wife hobbies I plan to develop as my pace of living slows dramatically (homemade goat cheese, anyone?). I’ll share recipes, stories about our animals (two, soon to be three, cattle dogs, five goats, 300+ chickens, two horses pending adoption, and a theoretical mini pig I have yet to adopt or even get Ken to agree to), musings on country life, and whatever else comes our way (Small town bar fights? Eating something fried on a stick? Driving to pick up a pizza?).
What is the biggest leap of faith that you ever took? How did it turn out? Let me know in the comments and I hope you’ll follow along as I repeatedly ask myself “WTF?”