Greetings from Minneapolis and St. Paul Minnesota

Well ladies, gentlemen, hens, roosters, chicks and eggs, I made my great escape without a hitch. I decided to take flight and end up where I ended up. Not something you probably expected from good old Beata, but I can be spontaneous and throw caution to the wind when I want to.

And boy did I want to. I opened my wings, took a leap and before I knew it, I landed in the great land of Minnesota.

Minne-what? you ask.

To tell you the truth, that’s what I said myself mere days ago. I like to think I didn’t choose Minnesota, it chose me. I was shooting to make it to Hollywood and my delicate wings just wouldn’t go anymore. Before I became too exhausted and plummeted to the ground, I decided to land with gracefully—even though I didn’t know where I was.

As I twirled downward, I landed on top of a giant cherry. Yes, a giant cherry. I got excited and thought there must be giants in this land to have cherries this big. I took one peck and nearly chipped me beak! Not giant cherries but giant art. How wonderful!

There were people all around me picnicking. I must have looked awfully desperate because people began offering me their food. Things like tuna noodle casserole, Taco Taxi and hamburgers with cheese stuffed inside. I was so hungry from my flight I ate it all and then had to nap away the afternoon to recover from such a feast.

From there, some very nice people said they had chickens of their own. I never knew urban dwellers in the United States had chickens. I asked them what color the eggs were and they told me they were white or brown. “No blue?” I clucked. “NO,” they said, “But brown is nice too.”

They let me ride on the handle bars of their bicycle and off we went to see the Twin Cities—Minneapolis and St. Paul.  Two cities separated by one river! We saw old stone bridges and flour mills, Prince’s (yes, The Prince) old neighborhood, a baseball game and award winning play, the Mississippi River and crystal blue lakes. So many lakes! They asked if I wanted to go for a swim, but I declined. The water deflates my feather fluff.

I met humans from the south, the north, east, west and everywhere in between. St. Paul was even founded by the Irish! As we traveled the state capitol’s streets, I almost felt like Legal Island was right around the corner.

My new friends were sad to hear I could not stay for summer—where nearly every weekend is a giant celebration of food, music and art. The greatest celebration of all they call the State Fair and they told me they eat everything on a stick and the women get their faces carved out of butter. Maybe I can take some real time off and come back to see the show. Or maybe a Legal-Island office wide field trip is in order.

Time To Fly

Before you finish this blog, I will be gone. Not for good, not even for a long time. I love Northern Ireland and everything, but I need a getaway. My beak needs some beauty rest from the spotlight. It will do the other girls some good. It will give them some extra room to stretch their wings and fluff their feathers without having to worry how they compare to me.

Just a quick trip. You won’t even know I’m gone.

The way I see it, I’ve got three options for international adventure. I’m thinking I need some sun and where else to get it other than the Kalahari Desert. I’ve always been a big fan of South Africa. The never-ending red sands remind me of red carpet in a way. I would be sure not to be bothered and get some rest and relaxation while being in a beautiful place. I can smell the rejuvenation already.

Of course, I feel an embodied pull towards a trip south to my native Chile. To be connected with my fellow rumpless royal blue egg laying sisters and brothers would be truly magical. They could improve my Spanish, show me how to shake my feathers to the national Chilean dance the Cueca and we would soar high above the majestic forests and probably see both ends of the world. All the while I would charm them with my Irish accent and we will laugh through the night with my stories about Mr. Barry. An entire generation of BFFs is waiting for me. I can feel it. ¡Tengo que ir!

Doing Hollywood hen-style has always been one of my dreams. It’s a nearly a guarantee that I would run into a famous critter of some kind: Perhaps the entire cast of Chicken Run. I’m sure we could gab and gossip for hours. I have heard Babe, the oinker who starred in Babe, likes to go out on the town. And I ever met Lassie, the Queen of the Silver Screen, I might molt myself right then and there.

The risk is great however. If I fall into the wrong hands, I may end up as chicken nuggets, tenders or disfigured star shapes. Such a tragic end may be fitting to my high-drama life but I know barbeque sauce does not compliment my skin tone.

As soon as everyone at Legal-Island is home for the night, sleeping sweetly in their beds, I’ll be off into the night. I’m not sure where, but I’ll open my wings and fly.

The Plain Egg Perspective

It’s been a rough week. I have been thinking a lot about the situation on April Fools Day.

Don’t worry – it’s not what you think. I don’t know who bleached my eggs and I never will, but I should have known better than to lash out at any possible hen or human who may have been my friend. I burned bridges and coop ramps with some of but hopefully there are still pieces left standing from which we can begin to re-build – or at least ashes from which we can rise from together.

Now that I have a plethora of plain old white eggs, this week I feel like a new hen. A regular hen, in a regular pen, in a regular world. It’s not always easy having the most beautiful eggs in the whole world. Sure, I love the glamour and the high-paced lifestyle of being a blue egg diva. There are always places to go, people to feed – and I get to look good doing it with free promotional material from Cock-a-Doodle Cosmetics and In-Coop Magazine.

But a delicatessen lifestyle is not all it’s cracked up to be. My eggs make it hard for me to make friends – other hens are jealous or intimidated. Humans are always prying and prodding into my life with their television cameras and omelet cook books. They want to scramble this and boil that. I’m in such high demand that on top of all the appearances, work outs, egg laying and autograph sessions I squeeze into one day, I now have to blog to keep people happy. My international fan base has been going coo-coo. Can humans ever be satisfied? As my Chilean bisabuelita used to say: Beata, people are loco.

A plain-egged world may not be as superstar-side-up or red carpet as I’m used to, but I love my new found perspective as an everyday hen. She works all day, eating plain old corn or feed, fighting for every last grain. She knows not the taste of leftover birthday cake from the break room. She can never cluck enough to get a human to listen to her. Their eyes are fixed upon snatching her eggs, filling their bellies and doing it all again tomorrow. She is isolated from the rest of the big wide world – no school children to say hello or friendly visitors. She’s not even allowed to have rooster friends. Not even for one night out on the town.

I will never forget the lessons learned on 1^st April 2012. Who would have thought a devious game would have fueled my humble enlightenment—and during Holy Week of all weeks! I am a happy mother of these white eggs. They are equal to all colors, blue, green and purple. Equal to striped, glittered and speckled. Come Easter, I will proudly say that I’ll have my eggs plain white and no other way.

April Fools Blues

To whoever bleached my royal Araucana blue eggs:

This is the sound of me not laughing.

Happy April Fools? Is this your idea of a funny joke? Well you can haha for now but you’ll be boo-hooing later. When I find out who you are, you’ll wish you never messed with this hen. I take my blue eggs serious-side-up. Just like my Chilean great grandmother, my beloved bisabuelita, told me: When your eggs are white, something isn’t right.

Was it you Britney? Little Miss “The world doesn’t understand my art?” The next time you try to creatively express yourself brooding emotions onto my eggs, your pebbles for eggs will be so white you won’t even be able see them.

On second thought, Christina is always trying to out-blue me to no avail. I know you’re just jealous that you’re eggs’ blue looks like drain water compared to mine—the infinite blue of Earth’s sky, hovering over the beloved lands from Northern Ireland to Chile. Better watch out prissy Chrissy, you’re eggs are going to turn ghastly green from envy.

Then again, Henrietta, you have the perfect cover to do a little mischief. The unassuming follower, eager to please. Always clucking up to me, “Yes, Beata, of course! Look at that tail feather Beata—have you been working out? I wish my eggs could be as blue as your, Oh Queen.” To answer your question Henrietta, Yes. Oh yes, I have been working out and you very well will feel the effects soon.

Another thing my bisabuelita told me: Never trust a guy in a suit. Especially if he’s a charmer. Well here’s looking at you, bossman. You think you’re so funny, so clever, Mister Saint King of Fools himself. You really want to mess with my eggs? My eggs, remember. The only relationship you should be “nesting” in this community right now soon is me. You want eggs? There’s a Centra right over there.

But wait.

The sky unfolds. I see it clearly now. You’re all in it together.

Christina and Kerry grinning in cahoots with James, Julie, Jacqui and Jayne—Legal Island’s own court jesters. The Peters have been snickering with Brittney while Heather has been hee-heeing with Phyllis and the foxes. I know my old farmer from Ballymena still visits Mr. Barry from time to time. Sly Scott and dangerous Donna—I should have known this is what you’re really like. What were you doing chatting with the school kids yesterday, Vanessa and Debbi? Helping them prepare for Easter with my eggs? Allison and Ainsley have been giving me odd looks for weeks—I thought they were just always confused at something, but I guess they just couldn’t play it completely cool. Henrietta always played the sympathy card with Pamela and Arnold. And Shannon? Lovely Shannon…I thought you were on my side but I guess not. You know where they keep the bleach.

I can hear you laughing now but it won’t be for long. I’m sure you already think of me as Queen of Clever and Beata: the Brain and Beauty, but you have never known this side of me. I—the one and only Dastardly Diva—will avenge my blue eggs. Beware the cluck in the night. 

All For The Sake of A Feather

It hit me like ton of bricks last night as I was ruffling my feathers to go to sleep. How could I have been so dense? It is really quite simple – the only expert on Britney I know is… Britney! Why didn’t I think of just asking her why she is so desperate to get out? What harm can it do? I spend the better part of the night thinking about the little girl’s suggestion and planning how to approach Britney.

So, this morning after breakfast, I joined her at the fence and asked her why she wanted to get out so desperately. She turned to look at me with those soulful eyes of hers and seemed to weigh her answer carefully. ‘It’s because of my feather?’ she said. ‘Your feather?!’ I asked. ‘But you have a whole body full of feathers! Why do you need another one?’ She looked away briefly and then said, barely audible. ‘It’s Mommy’s feather, she gave it to me the day we were taken and I always kept it tucked away safely under my wing. That day when I escaped, I lost it and I want it back so badly.’ I looked at the poor sentimental dear and wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. That’s it? She’s looking for her mother’s feather and I was trying to psychoanalyze her behavior all the time, certain she’s headed for admission to Holywell Hospital.

Well, I’m happy to say that we enlisted the help of Mr. CEO when he came by for the productivity meeting. By some miracle he could arrange for another ‘mommy feather’ to be brought to Britney from the farm. We really are indebted to these people at the Island; they go out of their way to make sure that we are happy. The change in her is remarkable. Tonight at dinner she was chatty and her eyes had a new luster.

It’s time for me to sign off for the day. I’m so relieved about Britney that not even Henrietta’s prolonged absences bother me tonight - she’s a big girl and can look after herself. Hope you have a good time until we meet again. As my great grandmother in Chile used to say: ‘May all that happens to you, be as joyful as a dream.’

As Life Is So Short, Shouldn’t We Meet Again?

Today I met a real life psychologist who attended a course here at the Island and she explained to me that Britney might be suffering from what she called ‘post traumatic stress syndrome.’ You see, the day when she had to leave her mother, brothers and sisters at a very tender age, was extremely traumatic for her. Leaving was one thing, but the way in which we were forced to leave the farm was akin to torture. 


All four of us were bundled into burlap bag, which was tied with a rope and put in a vehicle. It was so dark in there and Christina kept raising her wings as if she wanted to learn to fly right at that moment to get away from the terrible thing that was happening to us. I don’t remember much of the ride from the farm to the island, but I can tell you that there was the most unearthly music in that car. I’m not sure if you can even call it music. You have to understand that we were used to the sounds of nature – a rooster crowing, cows mooing and at most an owl screeching! But the sound in that car coupled with the darkness and stuffiness of the bag was terrifying! 


Once we got out here at the Island and saw what the dear people here planned for us, we understood that the torture was necessary (maybe not to that degree, but necessary.) Britney never shared our understanding. She remained skittish and scared, deeply hurt and violated by the way in which she had been taken. I’m not so sure what to do, now that I have a better understanding of the dynamics underlying her condition but at least I have a better grasp of the source of her troubles. 


I spoke to the little girl by the fence again today. What a dear little sweetheart she is! This time she showed me lovely illustrations about a poor fatherless rabbit who acted up the whole time. That got us talking about Britney and her issues. Do you know what the little girl said, just as she was starting to walk away? ‘Why don’t you just ask her why she acts funny?’ 

Pure Torture

Why didn’t anyone warn us that exercise can induce torture? We were so enthusiastic yesterday that we did triple our usual program and added a few climbs up and down the ladder in the hen house. This morning none of us could move – we were so stiff! Even Henrietta was in her usual place in the hen house when we woke up.

Mr. CEO was really quite concerned when we didn’t rush to our breakfast this morning as usual. He even tried his funny voice. I’m not quite sure why he does it. It seems a little bit as if he is talking down to us. I wish he wouldn’t do it – aren’t we an equal part of the Island team? But Henrietta loves it when he talks funny. She gets a faraway look in her eyes and says it reminds her of someone she knew long ago.

Well, we managed to peck around the hen house this morning, but no more exercise for us thank you! To be honest, Britney wasn’t doing so well on the regime either. The poor dear was as quiet as ever and only seemed to be losing weight. She wasn’t even drawing in the sand where we have our dust baths any more.

On a lighter note – I met someone today. A little girl came by the fence with a thick book under her arm and she showed me the most delightful pictures. One of the stories in the book is all about a very stupid duck called Jemima. She had to be the densest, most idiotic fowl ever to disgrace the earth! She was swindled by a fox and lost all her eggs and nearly her life! Speaking of which, I heard rumors of renewed fox activity in the neighbourhood. I better keep my beak shut about this. It wouldn’t do to upset Britney further.