I confess, I’m a Prairie chicken at heart. Or as someone once corrected me, a Prairie rose. Not that I was raised on the farm, mind you. But it’s hard to escape some awareness of the farming community when you’re surrounded by it.

Farm folk friends of ours used to tell stories of teasing city guests that chocolate milk came from the brown cows. It was the inside joke on these poor, unsuspecting visitors from far away (the United States). It seemed unbelievable that someone could believe the brown cow/chocolate milk bit, as a few invariably did. Now that I’ve been living in the big city for a long time, though, it’s not so surprising to see how the uninitiated may have be duped.

Hey kids, chicken doesn’t come from Styrofoam trays! It also doesn’t come in nice, perfectly round, perfectly breaded disks. Where are those pieces meant to have come from, anyway?!

Isn’t it just a little bit sad that the only little lamb some kids have seen is illustrated in a book of nursery rhymes?