When the rooster squeals

Too bad the backyard chicken craze was debunked before it really even took off, because I was all primed to pitch a piece railing about it, having grown up with birds so foul my dad and I would eat hot dogs before consuming one freshly whacked. Now I see people are starting to natter about raising your own bacon, which is even more insane. It’s been 32 years, but I can still smell the hog farms I had to cover as a reporter in Iowa. And the tales friends have come home with from Third World shoots would turn you off pork on the hoof, big time. (They involve latrines and snouts, if you must ask.) But if three upper-income Americans do invest in walking tenderloins, I’m sure we’ll be reading about the “trend.” The prosperous are struggling so hard to keep food on their families in this Bushwhacked economy, you know.