Let me catch you up on the chickens.
In short, they’ve grown up. Sometime in July, Goldie layed her first egg. She graced it upon our neighbor who was chicken-tending during our victorious summer of camping.
I’ve never experienced the chicken coming-of-age transition before, and let me tell you it is A Thing. In the days before The First Egg, the girls were small, skitterish, made little peeps and clucks, and made staying out of our way their main business. Here is what our neighbor relayed to me about The Day of The First Egg. Before she’d even discovered it, she knew something was going on. The ladies were strutting and squawking like narcissistic high school seniors at prom.
Bless our neighbor for recounting this by shuffling around our front yard with her elbows angled just so, her neck bobbing out and in, and for saving the first few eggs for us to see. She intuited that this was also a very big moment for me. It was.
I crooned over them. They were so perfect and small. Little starter versions of real, live eggs.
And they were delicious. It was a miracle to see them sputtering to white in the cast iron skillet I inherited from my grandmother.
Over time, the eggs have gotten bigger, and now they’re your standard medium/large that you get at the supermarket. Except for the fact that they’re a sepia rainbow. And Mavis’ are always this amazing blue-green color and more oblong than the rest.
We’ve also gotten a few whoppers. Like one from this morning that we cracked open to find 2 yolks inside.
Now, our gals are routine and established layers. We usually get 3-5 eggs per day. The bounty is amazing.
And of course I have slipped into the mundane routine of it all, but I still get shocked into awe by the cycle we’re part of. We throw our cast off cheerios and weeds and apple cores and rotting pumpkins into the run (in addition to their pellets and scratch), and in exchange, these birds make us food and fertilizer. Every effing day. That daily wheel of give and take brings me back to the human animal I am. And even though I can be found hemming and hawing in bed about having to go outside to let the chickens out, I can also be found whispering “thanks gals” into the nest box in the afternoon.
Really. Thanks gals. You’re doing a bang up job.