Well, originally I’d named her Cricket. Because she has a very plaintive, persistent chirp that dominates the chorus of the other chickie babies.

She can be pushy, rude and even mean to her sisters. The kind of gal who swoops over and pecks at the eyes for no reason. She stirs up trouble, creates kerfuffles.

So we started calling her Ivanka, as a joke. The unfortunate name stuck.

Still, I was not feeling much love for her.

But then, one day I noticed her wings were looking bad. She had glaring, bald patches. The skin beneath was a raw, angry pink color. All at once, she looked like a cat had eaten her and spit her out. Seriously ugly.

And the more bedraggled she became, the meaner she got.

And that’s when I started to feel sorry for Ivanka. Vain, self-centered, power hungry girl.

I tried to hold her and comfort her fragile-feathered ego, but she wasn’t having it. Damned if she would admit to not being the belle of the ball.

Because, you see, chickens have this thing called a pecking order and Ivanka was battling it out in the primaries with Fiona for the top position.

I was rooting for Fiona.

Anyway, these chickens are my Zen Masters. They teach by example. They coax me into understanding the nature of the world. In this case, the ways of love.

How and why do we choose the ones we love? We choose what is easy.

We love the cute fluffy, cuddly, yellow chicks who nestle into our palms with contentment. We love the eager, frisky attitude of the young pullets who scurry to us for feed.

We love the adult chickens who let us hold them and allow us to bask in a sense of companionship and trust. We love the girls who give us eggs, compliant and generous.

But what about the difficult ones like Ivanka?

So this is the Zen: maybe we learn more from those that are problematic rather than the loyal, adoring ones.

And now I think of this when I deal with Ivanka. Sure, I want to muscle in and overpower her and woo her to my side – but that’s not what’s required. If you know chickens, you know that doesn’t work.

So, over time, Ivanka’s feathers rectified themselves. She now has gorgeous peroxide-color plumage, with a lacy black decolletage. She is finally ready for the debutante ball.

And that’s how I see her, as a slightly neurotic, insecure young lady. But she is smart and I have high hopes. Because she’s Ivanka – a bit like her namesake – the bottle-blonde, ambitious and powerful political force.

And what’s funny to me is, she is an incredible breed of chicken – she is a Colombian Wyandotte. A beautiful heritage specimen who makes a great layer.

In my mind’s eye, I see her at her best chicken-self. Yes, the top of the order, but beneficent and wise. She will rule with firm kindness, even though there may be times of necessary toughness, not always a pretty sight in the chicken yard.

But that’s OK. I love her, and I’ll just need to rein in my aversion, and make room in my heart for Ivanka. Take the bad with the good.

It’s what we chicken farmers do.

At Thanksgiving we had our little stunted celebration in the backyard. My son and his girlfriend, my husband and I, we huddled in our coats, with our lawn chairs spaced out judiciously. We wore our masks. Just another staged pandemic family holiday.

And after the apple pie was consumed, I handed out my little party favors. This year, a handful of fluffy chick for each guest to hold and keep warm. A peeping baby bird to snuggle in the palms of their hands.

I thought it would be fun. I’m attempting to socialize these birds, and what better way? We may not be able to cuddle our loved ones, but we can love on a chick.

Remember when we were kids and we all got those goody bags at the end of the birthday party? We would tote them home as little souvenirs from the party. Often they were lackluster – cheap, plastic toys or a bit of candy or a silly whistle.

But what mattered was the thought. The tiny tokens were a way of remembering the event, capsulizing the moment, in a gracious gesture.

Holidays during this pandemic also feel a bit like that takeaway prize. But the problem is, we aren’t even allowed to experience the actual party, instead we’re forced to make do with the scrap of what remains.

We must use our memories to call upon the fuller experience, to imagine and just be grateful.

Anyway, today I spent a few hours in the yard, watching my four baby chicks scratch and bathe and peck around inside their new enclosure. Since the days are warm, I can let them out in the fresh air for a few hours.

My baby chicks, my live party favors.

I scrutinize them, their funny antics. The sun is a big heat lamp for them, they move towards it and roost in the warmth. And they hop and fret, jockeying for position near the green clump of parsley I have pulled out of the dirt and dropped into the pen.

I sit and ruminate on them. Vitality, freshness, cheek.

They are not the party, they are the side dishes.

But still I think that they are also the real-life prize. These cheap, throwaway birds are actually the main attraction. They are what will remain when the dust settles, worthy of prime time.

I mean, once the virus is under control, I will be here and so will the chickens. The small animal bodies are true life, real. Maybe more relevant than anything else here.

So anyway, the sun warms my cheeks and I marvel that it is December. I’ll take it as a gift. Like the chicks, I grab that patch of sunshine and let it leech into my bones, let the Vitamin D saturate the corpuscles in my blood.

And I hope that my body’s reserves of endorphins will get me through this long winter of scarcity – with its small tokens of human contact. And I’ll pray that a boost of grace from my party favor chicken babies will get me through.

I’m counting on it.