Would you prefer that I read this story aloud for you? Happy to oblige! You can listen to the podcast version from The Hearth of Sap Bush Hollow here:

Don’t forget how easy it is to lose a chicken.  My inner voice whispers to me on New Years Day as Bob and I open the mailbox and find that the cafe’s beer and wine license was delivered the day prior.  

We’re home now.  I’m dancing in the living room, celebrating this monumental achievement that I never before recognized as such (Seriously.  This was harder than the Ph.D.).  But all the while I’m dancing and the dogs are barking and the girls are laughing and my sister-in-law and niece and nephew who’re visiting for the holidays are giggling at my antics, an inner voice chants:

The chicken.  The chicken.  The chicken.  NEVER FORGET the chicken.

I lost a chicken the night before our cafe opened in July of 2016.  It was a frozen chicken I brought home from the farm for our ritual Saturday evening dinner.  And it meant a lot to me.

From the time we first moved in together, Bob and I had a Saturday night ritual.  I put a chicken on to roast, he made martinis.  We sipped and danced in the living room, or out on the porch, or out in the yard, depending on the weather.  

Dogs moved in and pawed and howled at our Fox Trots and swing turns.  So we abandoned dancing to howl and chatter with them.  Pregnancy ensued, so the martinis were replaced with herbal tea for a spell, but they eventually returned.  And chattering children soon shouted over howling dogs until we all managed to chorus together.  And still we roasted the chicken and sipped our martinis on Saturday nights.  

But that night before the cafe opened, as I tried to remember all the things I still  needed to move to the cafe, and remember all things I had to do to open in the morning, and worried if all that money we invested was going to result in a giant humiliating financial catastrophe; as I raided my home kitchen for the pots, pans and ingredients that still hadn’t come in for the cafe, I lost the family chicken.  

I abandoned all the other projects I was mistakenly trying to carry on simultaneously, and cried out for an all-out household search for the frozen chicken.  Bob, Saoirse and Ula all stepped up to the hunt.  I just wept.

I wept because it all felt so symbolic.  Saturday night roasted chicken was the punctuation of our week.  It was the point where life stopped, where we gathered, where celebration was always on order.  It was a festival of love, hunger, great food, family, sunsets, starlight, glorious moons, happy dogs, all the things that represented the truest form of wealth for Bob and me. 

And I lost it.  

Bob found the chicken on a shelf next to the toilet.  Please don’t ask me how it got there.  I left the it to thaw in the kitchen sink and prayed that I hadn’t lost our Saturday nights.  

But we did.  

Our exhaustion levels were so high, Saturday night became about little more than foraging for a snack.  

But then, with time and a steep learning curve, things changed.  I found things that were better than Saturday night chicken dinner: 

 – Saoirse and I crawl out of bed at 3am to go down to the cafe to start proofing the croissants.  As they wake up, we curl up together in front of the fireplace on bedrolls and snatch a little more sleep.  An hour later I get up and start baking while I listen to classical music quietly in the kitchen.  An hour after that she picks up the bedrolls and blankets and starts to dial in the espresso machine along  with the rock n roll tunes.  As sunrise comes to West Fulton, we slide shots of espresso back and forth, dance to the music and sip espresso as we debate flavor notes, change the grind, sip, and debate again until we can pull the perfect shot.  It is a private time, sacred to both of us, a highlight of our week.  

 – Ula and Bob join us two hours before opening.  She won’t start the day without coming back into the kitchen and demanding a long hug from me.  It’s an amazing way to launch a cafe morning.  

 — And Saturday itself is filled with these amazing customers and neighbors.  From my place at the grill I get to watch them talk to each other, move from table to table to visit, crack jokes, make plans to help each other and, with frightening frequency, spontaneously burst into song.  And when I have tough days, there is always someone sitting out front willing to talk it out when things slow down. 

All of these have been amazing trade-offs for a Saturday night chicken dinner. 

Nevertheless, with improved skills and organization, Bob and I found our way back to Saturday night martinis once more, too.  And while Saturday chicken didn’t make its way back (We were way too exhausted for more cooking and dishwashing), Sunday became a new Saturday.  Sunday brunches with the girls became the order of the day, with extra pots of coffee and  me reading stories aloud from back issues of The  New York Times.  The Saturday chicken became a Sunday chicken, and Mom and Dad now drive up to join us at the table.  We have drinks, we swap stories about the week, feast, and sometimes even watch a movie.  

We lost the Saturday chicken.  But it turns out we traded it for even better weekly rituals.

I need to remember this right now.  With the beer and wine license and our addition of Saturday evening dinner hours, everything is changing and shifting again.  Saoirse and Ula are unsure of their place in the new routine.  Bob and I are trying to learn new food prep schedules.  At the same time, I must carve out more and more hours to market more broadly, to find the customers who will make the journey and fill up those tables each Saturday evening.  We’ve doubled our employees and we are writing protocols and training and setting up payroll services and coordinating work schedules and meeting all kinds of new labor requirements.  I’m working on new recipes, and learning to taste wine and beer like I had to learn to taste espresso.  It’s easy to lose a chicken in all this.

But on opening night, Saoirse and Ula insist on coming down and just sitting at the counter while Bob and I run the show with Lisa and Eileen, our new staff.  Mom and Dad come in to have dinner.  Saoirse dials in the espresso machine and passes shots to Lisa and Eileen, instructing them on how to taste it.  Ula helps Eileen learn to use the point-of-sale system and visits customers.  Mom and Dad do the same.  

The whole family sticks together through the entire shift, even though two thirds of us aren’t even required to be there.  

I go home exhausted, but relaxed and happy.  It was a quiet night, but it was also successful.   We made money, Lisa and Eileen got used to things, and I got to talk to some wonderful new customers.  

I drift off to sleep that night, then lurch awake, the chant still on my brain:

The chicken.  The chicken.  The chicken.  NEVER FORGET the chicken!

And then I realize.  I can’t lose the chicken.  In fact, I never actually lost the chicken.  Because Bob and Mom and Dad and Saoirse and Ula are all there helping to hold onto it.  Maybe it’s not a roasted chicken dinner on Saturday night anymore, but it is family watching out for each other in life and business, making sure that we still find time to rest, to play and to love.  There will be some chaos for a spell as we adjust to the new routines and climb the learning curve once more.  But on this farm, at least, there will always be plenty of chicken. 

Podcast update: We’re still hoping to launch the new podcast, The Hearth of Sap Bush Hollow, next month. It will be an audio version of this weekly blog, with sections devoted to answering reader questions.  Which means:  Do you have questions for me?  About homeschooling? Being in business with my mother?  Whether or not Bob sleeps with his boss?  Finances?  Cooking questions?  Family farming?  Everything you reach out to ask helps Bob and me to develop our content.  Thus, your ask is a gift to us.  Please don’t be shy! You can write to me at shannon@sapbush.com.