Nora took yesterday off from the work on her book, and spent the day in the Berkshires with friends, while I got myself reacquainted with Kurt and Megan and Sarasa in my own novel that I’ve not worked on in two months. When she came home at dinner, we talked about our respective days, and she was marveling at the casual wealth of the tony homes and grounds of western Massachusetts. She described one particular hobby farm that produced cheese, selling it in a self-serve farmstand with an iPad and a Square reader instead of a tin box that you put six bucks into. They drove slowly through the grounds, because there were chickens everywhere. “And they’re gorgeous! These are not working class chickens!”
That’s one of those sentences that’s never before been spoken, a concise description of a specific attitude toward life. These are not plebian, proletarian chickens. These are the entitled chickens of the lesser nobility. These chickens’ parents would absolutely buy the naming rights to the rowing clubhouse in order to get them admitted to USC.
It’s good to be married to a writer. You get instant literature over dinner.