It’s All Natural… So It Must Be Safe

During my 35 years as a massage therapist, I heard a lot of things from clients lying face-down on the table. Some were heartfelt, some were questionable, and some made me pause just long enough to decide whether to laugh or educate. One of the most common went like this: “I started taking this herbal supplement. It’s all natural, so it can’t hurt me.”

Now, I understood what they meant. Natural sounds wholesome. Clean. Like something you’d find growing along a quiet country road—or even in your herb garden—instead of behind a pharmacy counter with a warning label that folds out like a road map. I’d usually answer the same way every time. “Well… poison ivy is all natural too. But I wouldn’t use it for anything.” That generally got their attention.

Out here in the country, “natural” doesn’t mean safe. It just means nobody put it in a bottle yet. We’ve got plants that heal, plants that irritate, and plants that will make you wish you’d never brushed up against them in shorts. Even the chickens don’t eat everything they see—and they’re not exactly known for thoughtful decision-making. If a chicken walks past something without pecking it, I figure that’s a pretty solid warning sign right there.

I think part of the problem is that if something doesn’t come with a printed list of side effects, people assume there aren’t any. No warning label, no problem. We all know not to roll around in poison ivy, but there are a whole lot of plants that fall into the category of “looks harmless” that probably ought to come with a sign that says: if you don’t know what you’re doing, you shouldn’t be doing it.

Like coltsfoot. Those bright yellow flowers that show up first in the spring, before the dandelions are even thinking about opening their sleepy eyes. They look cheerful. Helpful, even. The kind of plant that seems like it would bring you a cup of tea and ask how you’re feeling. They’ve been used for generations for coughs and colds, and folks swore by them. But just because people have used something for 200 years doesn’t mean it’s harmless. Kind of like a few old-time farm tools—worked great in my grandmother's day, might also take a finger off if you aren’t paying attention. Turns out, coltsfoot comes with a few strings attached that nobody mentioned back in the day—including liver damage.

And it’s not the only one.

A lot of those old remedies worked. That’s why people kept using them. But they worked for the same reason a sharp blade works—use it right and it helps you, use it wrong and you’re headed for trouble.

Foxglove was used for heart conditions, but it contains digitalis, where the difference between helpful and deadly is dangerously small. Comfrey—sometimes called “knitbone”—was used to heal bones and bruises, but can cause serious liver damage if taken internally. Pennyroyal showed up in remedies for colds and digestion, but can be toxic even in small amounts and has caused fatal poisonings. Jimsonweed was used for asthma and pain relief, often smoked, but can cause severe hallucinations and delirium that nobody signs up for twice. Yarrow was used for wounds and fevers and is one of the milder ones, but can still trigger allergic reactions and interact with medications. Even elderberry, which people still use today, has to be prepared properly because the raw plant can make you sick. And belladonna… well, the name “deadly nightshade” really was all the warning label anyone should have needed.

Nature doesn’t hand out instruction manuals, and it definitely doesn’t label things “safe for beginners.” A lot of what we use in modern medicine started out in plants, and somewhere along the line somebody figured out the right dose, the right preparation, and what happens when you get it wrong. That’s the part people tend to skip when they say, “it’s natural,” as if that settles the matter.

I’m not against supplements, and I’m not against herbs. I’m just in favor of a little common sense before you start treating your body like a science experiment based on something you read on the internet at midnight. Because natural can help you, and natural can also knock you flat if you’re not paying attention, and sometimes the difference between the two is just a matter of how much you take—and whether you know what you're doing.

And if all else fails, just remember: poison ivy is natural too.

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Special Delivery... Eventually

I ordered 30 chicks. They were hatched on Monday in Iowa and shipped out through USPS that same afternoon, with a simple plan to arrive at our little Colebrook, New Hampshire post office Wednesday morning. Simple, apparently, was asking too much.

Wednesday came and went without a phone call telling me they'd arrived. There was no peeping box waiting at the post office. I figured they’d probably been delayed and would show up Thursday morning instead. Thursday came, and still nothing. Instead, I got a text saying my chicks were in Manchester, New Hampshire—three and a half hours south of us, practically waving at Massachusetts. For reference, we’re up here near the Canadian border, so unless those chicks suddenly developed a taste for city life, something had gone very wrong.

I went in to the Colebrook post office to ask what on earth my chicks were doing on a sightseeing tour of southern New Hampshire. The woman there checked, and sure enough, the text was right. My chicks were, in fact, living it up in Manchester. She sent what was described as an “urgent” email, which apparently travels at about the same speed as my chicks, because by the time anyone responded later that afternoon, they had already been shipped to Nashua. From there, they finally made their way to White River Junction, Vermont—the main distribution hub for our area—and eventually arrived here in Colebrook on Friday.

Baby chicks are hatched with just enough built-in fuel to get them through about three days without food or water. That’s what makes shipping them possible in the first place—provided the trip doesn’t turn into a five-day adventure.

By the time they arrived, I had pretty much prepared myself for the worst. I lifted the lid of the box expecting a sad situation and instead found 28 bright-eyed, peeping little survivors who looked at me like, “So… is breakfast part of this tourist package or what?” Two of them were clearly struggling and seemed to be weighing whether continuing on was worth the effort, which, given their recent travel itinerary, was completely understandable. But the rest were alive, loud, hungry, and ready to get on with things. I stood there equal parts impressed and grateful, because after five days in the mail, that felt nothing short of a small miracle.

As I’m writing this, I can hear them peeping away from my dining room table. That’s right—no fancy brooder setup, just a large Rubbermaid tub with a heat lamp, food, water, and a front-row seat to the everyday life of a human. I like to keep a close eye on them that first week, because some need a little extra encouragement and a few need help figuring out how this whole “being a chicken” thing works.

And then there are the ones that require what I can only describe as a very awkward spa treatment. There’s a charming little condition some of them get called “pasty butt,” where droppings stick to their tiny backside feathers, dry, and form a plug that blocks anything else from coming out. When that happens, the chick gets escorted to the bathroom sink for a gentle warm-water cleanup, followed by a careful blow-dry before being returned to the group. Because nothing says normal life quite like standing at the sink drying off a chick while the rest of them are peeping from the dining room.

This is farm life. It isn’t always glamorous, and it occasionally involves tending to situations you never imagined you’d be responsible for, but it has a way of keeping you grounded and reminding you that sometimes the smallest, most ordinary moments are the ones that stick with you.

The weaker two chicks have rallied a bit, but it’s still a 50/50 situation. Time will tell. The hatchery will replace any that didn’t make it, but honestly, after surviving five days in the postal system, getting routed through half of New England, and still showing up ready for breakfast, I’m not convinced the replacements would be any more impressive.

These little overachievers have already earned their place. I’m half tempted to name them after their travel itinerary—Iowa, Manchester, Nashua, and White River Junction—just so they remember where they’ve been. Around here, we don’t just raise chickens; apparently, we raise long-distance travelers.

If anyone ever tries to tell you that farming is predictable, orderly, and makes perfect sense, just remember there’s a box of chicks somewhere that went on a five-day tour of New England before being fed breakfast. You really can’t make this stuff up.

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The Fine Dining Preferences of Chickens

Every morning I carry out a carefully measured, nutritionally balanced ration of premium layer feed. It’s formulated by people with degrees, tested for optimal egg production, and designed to meet every dietary need a chicken could possibly have, and I pour it into their feeder like a responsible farmer who is clearly doing everything right. The chickens do eat it, but with all the enthusiasm of someone facing a bowl of plain oatmeal, pecking at it only because it’s the only thing there is for breakfast, not because they’re particularly impressed. And let’s face it, it’s still better than starving, which is about the highest compliment that feed is ever going to get.

They’ll stand there, half interested, half distracted, taking a bite or two, wandering off, coming back again, as if they’re trying to convince themselves this really is as good as it gets. It keeps them going and it does its job, but you wouldn’t exactly call it a highlight of their day. It’s more like the kind of meal you eat while staring out the window, wondering where things went wrong, particularly if you ignored the chocolate-filled croissant that practically begged you to reconsider your priorities.

Now let me walk out there with a bowl of kitchen scraps—leftover spaghetti, a questionable piece of lettuce, maybe something that spent just a little too long in the back of the refrigerator—and suddenly I am no longer just the person who fills the feeder. I become the bringer of joy, the keeper of treasures, the one who clearly understands fine dining. They come running, wings half out, voices raised, with at least one hen acting like she hasn’t eaten since the Carter administration, and if I hesitate even slightly, I’m fairly certain they would climb me like a tree and knock the bowl out of my hands. A chicken has no dignity when pasta is involved.

Which raises the question: do chickens actually taste what they’re eating, or are they just enthusiastic about anything that isn’t nailed down? So I went looking for answers and, as usual, ended up asking Professor Google, who seems to have an opinion on everything. 

As it turns out, chickens do have taste buds—not many, and certainly not enough to qualify as food critics, but enough to know the difference between “this will keep me alive” and “this is worth knocking Mildred over for.” Their regular feed is the sensible meal, the one they eat because it’s there and they're hungry, while kitchen scraps are more like an open buffet where everything is interesting and nothing lasts long, including your personal space.

They seem to recognize textures and smells, and whatever mysterious chicken logic is involved works quickly to determine that a limp noodle is worth a full-contact sporting event. One hen grabs it, another chases her, a third joins in just because something is happening, and pretty soon the whole thing looks less like feeding time and more like a barnyard version of the running of the bulls. I’ve seen perfectly reasonable, law-abiding hens turn into feathered hooligans over a piece of bread without a moment’s hesitation, as if they’ve all agreed that civilization is optional under certain circumstances.

The thing is, their excitement isn’t really about hunger, because they’ve got a feeder full of perfectly good food sitting right there. It’s about variety and opportunity, and maybe a little bit about the thrill of getting something different—something better, or at least something they’re convinced is better. Honestly, they’re not that different from the rest of us. We all have our version of layer feed—the sensible, balanced, responsible choices we make because we know we should. And then every so often something else comes along that isn’t necessary but is different and interesting, and we find ourselves reaching for it anyway, even when we know better. 

Either way, I’ll keep bringing out the scraps because it’s the only time I’m treated like a five-star chef instead of the hired help. If they ever develop enough taste buds to start leaving reviews I have a feeling the spaghetti will get five stars while the carefully formulated layer feed will be described as adequate, but nothing to get excited about. And if there’s a lesson in all of this, it might be that sometimes the sensible choice will keep you going, but it’s not always the one you remember… which is probably why I’m still thinking about that chocolate-filled croissant.

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Big News!

After months of research—and more time than I care to admit talking to people who use words like “integration” and “smart systems”—I’ve finally upgraded the chickens. We now have an AI-powered nesting setup that tracks each hen’s laying schedule, productivity, and overall attitude. It connects right to my phone and sends alerts when a hen is thinking about laying an egg, in the process of laying one, or just sitting there pretending to be productive.

There’s even a feature that plays soft classical music in the nesting boxes to improve shell quality and reduce stress. Apparently Mozart is good for yolks. Who knew? So far, production is up… although one hen keeps pecking the sensor and another refuses to participate unless the music is changed. At the moment, I’ve got what I can only describe as a full-blown labor dispute going on in the coop.

Farming has come a long way.

For those that think I'm serious (aka, those that don't know me), yes, this is an April Fool’s joke. My chickens won’t even cooperate with an automatic door. There is absolutely no chance they’re syncing with an app.

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm