Between sets, I whipped out my steel pan and played a handful of chicken farmerly songs, like the one about how I first became a chicken farmer, and the one about how my chickens drink my bath water, and the one about how I want to be a chicken, and the one about how when I die, I'd like for my chickens to eat me, please.
And all the while I didn't have a single chicken in the world, and lived in a yardless basement apartment with grocery store eggs in the fridge.
Still, kids and old folks loved me. Our hostess said she was going to name one of their new baby chicks after me, and then I knew that I had made it.
Daily: 10 a.m.8 p.m.
3413 Petaluma Blvd. N., Petaluma
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