Saturday, April 24, 2010
Early each morning Sarah opens the chicken chalet for our feathered friends and then she gathers the eggs. It's a gift every day. I count the eggs. I speculate on who's laying and who's slacking. The color of the eggs is my main clue.
When I was a young girl we had chickens, even some of my beloved Ameraucanas who lay the blue-green eggs.
I didn't prefer the chickens then. I thought they were sort of a nuisance. Also, in my memory, the hens we had when I was growing up would fly into the woods and lay their eggs at sites unknown. These eggs were only to be discovered in a putrid state much, much later by my mischievious younger brother and his pranking friends.
Sarah speculates that maybe I like chickens so much better now because I don't have to feed them nor do I have to go out at dusk (usually) to count them on their roosts and lock them in for the night. I just know: I like seeing just-washed eggs in the morning light. I like knowing I don't have to drive anywhere prior to fulfilling an omelet craving. I like the funny little noises the hens make when they've newly laid an egg. I even like their fluffy hind ends.
I have gone off the deep end, dear reader. I'm talking about chicken hindquarters on my blog.
They do say the internet is stripping us of a sense of decency, decorum and appropriate disclosure.
Just call me "Exhibit A."