Eleventy-fourteen years ago, a fellow I knew, local artist and maritime historian, Hewitt Jackson (impressive looking gent!) invited a bunch of us over to his place for a cider-pressing party. He lived on a large tract of land in the suburbs with a lot of golden-delicious apple trees on it. We spent a lot of time tossing big, juicy apples into the hopper of his cider press, then when we'd finished, he took us into his house and we sat around drinking fresh-pressed apple juice. Delicious!!
There were gallons of the stuff, and he gave us each a quart bottle of it, saying that if we wanted to drink it as is, put it in the refrigerator. "But you can also set it in a window where the sun can hit it for a few days and it develops a very nice 'tingle.'"
After we had finished pressing the apples and before we headed into the house, Hewitt tossed all of the mash out into the yard. He had a few chickens wandering and clucking around the yard, and he commented, "At first they'll just ignore it, but after it's laid there a few days and the sun's shone on it, they'll get into it. Believe me, there's nothing in this world funnier than a drunk chicken!"