I should have know it was almost *that time*. Why, with the extra crankiness and squawking at me at all hours, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. My little girls were becoming women, uh…. Hens.
There’s something so endearing about that first egg. After months of freeloading, finally – a payback! And in such a precious, petite package. More a promise than a product, really. When my first flock of chickens that I raised from chicks (we actually inherited our very first flock of adult hens at our last house about 12 years ago) started laying 10 years ago or so, I actually blew out the insides of all those eggs, green and brown shelled. They made a cute decoration for Easter which is possibly still buried in a box in our barn from when we moved almost eight years ago. This time, after hundreds of chicks, I’m not quite so sentimental, but I’m definitely excited about what’s to come. Our older layers are three and a half now and thanks to a problem bear and various other natural causes, their number have dwindled to three. Not enough to feed a family who loves eggs.
Now I have thoughts of omelettes, egg salad and homemade mayonnaise – oh, and angel food cake with the white and lemon curd with the yolks – endless uses and exploitation. And it all begins with the humble, tiny, fragile first egg.