Is there anything cuter than a box of fluffy chicks? Nope.
I rented the movie Baraka this weekend, a colorful montage of scenes depicting people from around the world living life as the world evolves. Yup, an artsy film. We were watching the movie in a trance of sorts, the music tribal and hypnotic, the scenes quick-cutting and vibrant. Patterns dominated—traffic in a city, people working repetitive jobs, followers praying by the hundreds.
But then, a bunch of fluffy chicks flashed on the screen, and I brightened, yelling, “Chicks!” I’ve always had a thing for the fluff balls since a field trip to Macomber Farm where as third graders, we got to do the unimaginable: pet the chicks that had just hatched days before as they scurried about under the heat lamp.
At that age, my sister and I were obsessively reading this picture book about a boy who has the cutest chick-turned duck that follows him around. The best part was the page with a photograph of the boy blow drying the duck. We found this hysterical every time.
When we were older, the highlight was the annual field trip to the Museum of Science where kids flocked to the incubator, hoping to glimpse a chick pecking its way out of the shell. I still remember one tiny beak tapping its way into daylight and me desperately wanting to bring one home.
So, in Baraka, I was a little excited to see a big box o’ chicks. Until I realized the chicks were not chirping away happily on a farm, but being funneled into a vat and then—oh, it was too horrible; I looked away. Let us focus then, on the comforting image above of chicks in all their golden downy splendor…