The Surf & Turf treats landed on my doorstep three days early, and I am already chickening out. That's not hyperbole, I physically flinched when I opened the box. Inside, nestled in eco-friendly packaging, were a dozen freeze-dried mealworms and a bag of oyster-shell crumble. My feathered friends would consider this a five-star delivery. I consider it a declaration of war.
Here's the thing about chickens: they remember. If you show up with mealworms at 8 a.m. on a Tuesday, they expect mealworms at 8 a.m. on a Wednesday, and they will not hesitate to inform you of your failure with a level of passive-aggressive clucking that would make a soap opera villain proud. The early arrival of the Surf & Turf box means I am now contractually obligated, in the eyes of my flock, to deliver premium snacks on schedule for the foreseeable future. That's a lot of pressure for someone who still does a quick jog through the coop door just in case one of them decides today is the day they revolt.
Practical take for you, dear reader: if you ordered this subscription expecting a low-stakes treat drop, brace yourself. The social contract with chickens is real. You give them oyster-shell crumble, they give you stronger eggshells. You give them mealworms, they give you a reputation as the "easy mark" who can be summoned with a single stern look. I have a reader who messaged me last week, asking if I thought the early shipment meant the company was testing demand for a premium tier. My honest take? Probably. But more importantly, it tests your willpower. Can you resist the urge to shake the bag outside the coop just to watch them run? I can't. I tried. I am now the human equivalent of a vending machine that dispenses bug-based snacks on a timer.
What would I tell a reader who asked about this directly? I'd say lean into the madness. Order the Surf & Turf, accept the early arrival, and understand that your chickens will now treat you less like a caretaker and more like a part-time chef with questionable hours. The beauty of this subscription is that it forces you into a routine of tiny, ridiculous joys. You'll ground yourself in the absurdity of negotiating with a bird over a dried worm. That's the real value, not just the nutrition, but the permission to be a little silly about your poultry panic.
So here's my concrete point: if you've already chickened out, put the box in the garage for a day. Then open it at dawn, when the flock is still groggy and less likely to hold you accountable for past transgressions. You're not a coward for hesitating; you're a strategist. The Surf & Turf can wait. Your sanity cannot.