Egg Days

We think it was one of the Dixie Chicks who gave us our first egg. Small, elongated, a few streaks of dried blood on one end. Deposited right where we intended, in one of four nesting boxes on a pile of hay. It was such a joy to discover. For days I had been excited to open the coop door in the morning and peek in after work, and finally, on a Friday, there it was. How miraculous! Since then, we’ve gotten almost a dozen, about once per day. They vary in size, so I suspect more than one hen is now laying. Some are “trainer” eggs, and others have a more normal size and shape. When I finished fawning over the first three beauties, I cracked them open for a meatball tajine and discovered double yolks inside. If I hadn’t heard this was common, I would have taken it as a good omen. Maybe I still will.

I am delighted by our symbiotic relationship, the ease and nonchalance with which the chickens offer up their little gifts in exchange for food, shelter, and a little room to roam and scratch. Although I know we should do it, it will pain me to confine them to an outdoor pen. Those in the know—those wise and wizened poultry veterans—tell us that any day now we’ll come home to carnage. Those chickens are just too vulnerable to roam free. Predators of all types lurk in the brush that borders our lawn, prowl the woods and ledges behind our property. It’s only a matter of time, they say. I know I should believe them, but I don’t want to take away their freedom. Somehow it wouldn’t seem like such a fair trade anymore. I want eggs with legs. More than that, probably, I just want to do what you’re not supposed to do, buck convention. Show what’s possible if you run on faith, not fear.