At the third annual Fair Oaks Chicken Festival, folks with any sense of decorum would not dare think about, mention the possibility of, or sink their teeth into a meal that had anything to do with the nation's No. 1 low-fat meat.
Even if you like your source of protein from something so lean and delectable and omnipresent, it just wouldn't be good form to fire up the grills, heat up the fryers and set drumsticks, wings and breasts on sizzle till the meat is practically falling off the bone – not with the Village of Fair Oaks' most popular residents prancing around the parks, cozying up to picnickers and shuffling across the streets.
With six lanes of Sunrise Boulevard nearby and the roar of Highway 50 within earshot, chickens are the one thing that make this once-rural dot on the map seem like something out of 1950s America.
And yet:
"I like to look at them," said Bill Hessler of Orangevale as he stood watching nine chickens of various colors and sizes enjoying their freedom. "But I'll eat them, too."
The chickens didn't seem to hear that. They kept pecking away at food someone had tossed on the walkway. The birds also didn't flinch when one of the many food vendors was hawking chicken on a skewer – which would have looked irresistible on any other Saturday. And they remained calm even though people were eating the meat right in front of the cutest, most colorful living chickens you ever saw.
To add to the abomination, a hotly contested barbecue contest had three categories – chicken wings, chicken thighs and whatever you wanted to make with chicken.
David Schmidt of Folsom, who fired up the charcoal in two $900 Big Green Egg grills, was getting ready to make a chicken coconut soup for his anything-goes entry.
OK, so this festival was about chicken admiration, not reverence.
Feral chickens of Fair Oaks are practically a protected species. Sure, they wake too early and crow too loudly, they jaywalk, and they'll stare you down until you throw them a piece of your sandwich, but the net effect is they elicit far more smiles than frowns.
About five years ago, all that charm had begun to wear off for some residents. They complained the chicken population was out of control.
No one really knows how many there are, but the numbers seem to have stabilized in recent years. There are still several dozen and they still hop out of their perches in the trees and start making barnyard noises at 5:30 a.m.
In spring and summer, several hens can be spotted leading newborn chicks on feeding expeditions in ditches and along the shoulders of streets. Daily motorists know to stop and wait patiently for the birds to get to the other side.
Instead of griping about something that has come to define Fair Oaks, folks decided to embrace their feral friends with a festival, albeit one that included the devouring of a fair number of chickens – from the grocery store.
The festival has been a major hit. Last year, an estimated 8,000 people attended. On Saturday, parking spots were hard to come by, three bands played and people were elbow to elbow for several blocks.
Turns out, people can have it both ways when it comes to chickens. They can love to see the chickens doing their thing on the streets and they still enjoy fried chicken, barbecued chicken, chicken cordon bleu, chicken biryani, sautéed chicken cutlets in lemon sauce with prosciutto and sage. (OK, so we're getting carried away.)
"Having the chickens is a real added attraction to the charm of Fair Oaks," said Carol Metz, a special education teacher at Will Rogers Middle School, who rode her bike to the festival with her Yorkshire terrier Frankie poking its head out of her backpack.
And how does Metz feel about chicken as a meal?
"OK, yes. I eat chicken strips," she said with a laugh. "I don't know what part of the chicken that is, but I eat them."
Same goes for Mike Maucieri and his 2-year-old son Adam, who climbed off his dad's shoulders and tossed some chickens a handful of poultry feed.
Maucieri came out from West Sacramento. He wasn't aware of the celebrity status of the Fair Oaks chickens.
"I had seen a couple before, but I had no idea there were this many," he said.
Then he paused, holding back a laugh as he looked at the chickens and said, "I wonder how these guys feel when they get near that teriyaki chicken."
It would be easy to say the chickens were not amused.
By sundown Saturday, the chickens would shimmy high up in their favorite tree to roost for the night.
Call The Bee's Blair Anthony Robertson, (916) 321-1099.
