I’ll never be a farmer….

I have dreams of being an owner of a small holding in the country side of England.  I watch shows like “My Dream Farm” and “Build a New Life in the Country” out of the UK and wistfully stare at the screen.  I imagine having some chickens and eating fresh eggs every day.  I imagine there would be sheep.  I imagine sewing at a big wooden table and knitting by an open fire during the long dark winters.  I see the children playing in a cute stream and growing my own vegetables and living off the land. I see a deep apron front sink with a window overlooking the quiet few acres.  This isn’t a new dream.  I’ve had variations of this dream my whole life.  Today I got yet another reminder of why the likelihood that this dream is not remotely based in reality.  I made fried chicken.  One of my favorite foods on the planet.  But the chicken I buy at the local grocer (or at the butcher) isn’t as “clean” as the chicken I’m used to back home.  There are feathers still attached to every little nook and cranny of the damn thing.  I have to pluck the chicken before I can cook it, which usually results in skinless chicken and a lot of swearing…not from the chicken obviously.  I guess I’ll stick to being a small town or city girl.  But I can still dream right?