Dear Aunty Google, Why do we name things?

We name to identify, symbolize, refer, describe, simplify, organize, and most importantly, to tame. Through the act of naming, we make ties and emotional bonds with people and things. (Not my words.) Ok, that makes a lot of sense. You see, we are a family that name things. We give names to cars, musical instruments, garden ornaments, pets, friends, neighbours, gadgets – you name it, and we named it. My Father had a way of coming up with very descriptive nicknames for all and sundry. I am sure he had many remarkable traits, but of them all, I inherited his nicknaming and storytelling ability. Sadly, he was not around for much of my life, and so I do not have a benchmark to gauge if I have any of his other traits. I can only rely on the fact that the apple does not fall far from the tree.

So why all the philosophy about names, and why we name. I was engaged in a bit of a WhatsApp banter with an old friend from Pretoria last night. It all started off with him bemoaning the price of eggs. Now, typically, when you refer to the price of eggs, one would say: What’s that got to do with the price of eggs in China? It is a rhetorical question, meaning that something is irrelevant. But right now, in sunny South Africa, the price of eggs has become a rather sensitive topic, due to the cost and scarcity of eggs because of the Avian Flu that is decimating chicken farms.

Said friend from Pretoria went on to ask me if we were thinking of investing in a chicken run and 6 point-of-lay pullets. Having no idea what 6 point-of-lay pullets would be, I bought a little time and replied: that is a good idea. He then goes on to explain to me how he kept chickens years ago, and how he did everything from collecting the eggs, how he maintained the chicken runs with grass cuttings, and how the cleaning of the chicken run can add value to your compost heap. At this point, my interest has peaked. I mean, really, how organic can you get. Daily eggs and chicken poop infused compost heap. You must keep it in mind. I have lived on a farm now for close to a year. I know about farming stuff. Of course, 6 hens would need a rooster (if you want to keep the clutch alive). How quaint. A natural alarm clock. I could already see myself waking up to Napoleon’s early morning crow. There is a rooster here on the farm as well, but clearly, he lacks experience and guidance, seeing he crows at all times of the day. I could see Henny and Penny scratching about looking for slugs to feed their chicks (because we all know that I would never be able to remove their eggs to the pantry.) Arabella and Eggatha Christie will scrub the chicken run, while Chick Jagger and Cluck Norris will roam the garden, spreading their contribution, before it can reach the official compost heap.

Friend from Pretoria then takes his advice one step further. When they pass laying, they casserole nicely. We don’t casserole family members, I cried out in horror. No! There is no way I could make Penny Pot Pie, or Eggatha Benedict! You see, once you have named something, there is no way you can eat it. You don’t eat family members. Ha! Friend says. Lesson number one, never name the chickens. Lesson number two, no feeding by hand. Lesson three, no picking up chickens. Lesson four, no chickens in the house. No, sorry Friend from Pretoria. No can do. That is like telling a Zebra no stripes allowed. Does he not realise that naming things is in my DNA. Somewhere between chromosome 10 and 11, there is a nucleic acid particle that makes me name things.

Besides, to prepare a retired egg laying hen for the casserole dish, certain functions need to be performed. A friend once caught and gifted me a very big trout. I arrived home with my fresh trout in a bag, thinking of ways to cook him best. I love trout. It was only when I took the trout out the bag, that I realized there were still bits inside of him, which I had to cut open and clean out. Oh, dear. I worked my way through the process, and made a big, steamy trout pie. It looked so good. It smelled so good. But when it came to eating it, I just couldn’t. By then I had developed feelings for Nemo, and I just could not bring myself to eat him. Colin ate trout pie five nights in a row.

Which brings me back to eggs. Nothing beats a sunny side up fried egg on toast. One good thing about getting older is getting wiser, and I know that things don’t last forever. The avian flu will eventually go where Covid went to die. Before long, shelves will be packed with eggs – big ones, small ones, grain fed eggs, organic free-range eggs, easter eggs – you name it. Soon, I will be buying eggs again.

Now, as for that 6 point-of-lay pullets – that by the way for those who do not have friends educated in the ways of chickens, refers to a hen, when at about 19 weeks old, will start to lay eggs. If you had visions of a wooden frame with 6 holes in it, you are not alone. So, did I. I rather like the idea. I can get myself 6 pullets and a rooster. They will go about doing what chickens are meant to do, and soon I will have a creche of fluffy yellow chicks, that I will name, feed by hand, pick up and allow into the house. When Pretoria friend comes for a visit, I will be out there every morning, quietly hiding shop bough eggs in the nests, and will ask him to collect eggs for breakfast.

Who knows, with all that egg planting experience, I may well apply to be an Easter Bunny one day.