Eggcellant Adventure

With produce and meat checked off, eggs moved their way up my list of items to tackle. I found myself frequently staring at the ovums in the four-by-eight refrigerated section of the grocery store. I had an affection for eggs, though our family did not consume them in large quantities. Their matte colors were serene, calming. Their shape was gorgeous, plump, and voluptuous. Their immensely strong frame cradled origin-of-life mysteries. You might say I had ovary envy, even though my admiration started long before my oophorectomy. Years ago, as an oil painter, I loved to attempt to capture their flawless form onto canvas. Now, amidst a wave of cold air, I stood between frozen cookie dough bricks and artificially colored yogurt trying to decide which specimens to take home.

White, brown, or green. Which color would taste better?

Cage free, free range, or free roaming. Eggs roam?

Omega-three infused or antibiotic free? Promises, promises. What about this “vegetarian fed” label? Did that mean a vegan farmer was dishing up the chicken’s dinner? How could hens be vegetarian when they scratched in the dirt for bugs and chased white winged moths for dessert? The features listed on carton labels were staggering. What a difficult life hens must have these days!

As I stood undecided and confused about which eggs to choose, my mental reinforcements tried to assist my decision making. A deep-voiced devil jumped onto my right shoulder and instructed with militant demand, Buckle up soldier. You are the Secretary of Household Expense. Now, while your daughter tries to unbuckle and climb out of the cart, compare the per egg price between the six, twelve, and eighteen packages! (Sure, this voice is a bit bossy, but it’s the get-the-job-done part of me.)

Then, on my left shoulder, a gentler voice full of maternal wisdom whispered in my ear, You are peaceful, mindful, and a steward of the earth. Look within and you shall find the answer to Styrofoam, plastic, or cardboard cartons. (I know, this part of me is a bit ethereal, but I like to imagine she’s my sexy side, with a tiny, glittery wand.)

It turns out, the USDA Organic eggs were the best option available in the grocery store. The mama hens of these eggs hadn’t received any antibiotics or growth hormones (in the United States, poultry doesn’t receive additional growth hormones), and they did not eat chemically farmed food. Their boutique, high-end price made them easy to spot. I begrudgingly paid for them. By now, I understood convenience had a price, and at the time it was a place to start.

Now that I had my egg-dar on, I became aware of homemade signs stuck in front yards. Here were families raising small flocks of chickens, selling the extra eggs lemonade-stand style at clearance sale prices. While they weren’t USDA Certified, I could get to know my egg farmer/hobbyist. I could see how the birds lived. It seemed odd to not have a farm, but to have farm animals in the middle of a neighborhood. But it got me thinking. Would chickens make it in our backyard? Wouldn’t they attract coyotes that hunted in our woods? Or the darting red fox? Or the legendary clawed fisher cat who roamed at dawn? No, we certainly couldn’t raise hens. There was a family of falcons that lived just beyond our one-acre lot. Each year they glide above our yard, teaching their teenagers to fly, occasionally returning to their nest with a snake in their talons. (Yes, a happy snake.) Would they use my theoretical free-roaming hens for target practice? No. We certainly couldn’t.

Except… maybe… well, wouldn’t it be fun? Wouldn’t having our own backyard chickens be a memorable experience, you know, for the kids? My husband didn’t think so. It would be odd to own chickens in a neighborhood development. I let the idea simmer with him. Tick tick tick. Sometimes I have to grab the wheel and steer my own ship. Soon enough, the phone rang. “Mrs. Marsh? This is the Easton Postmaster. We have a package here for you. And it’s peeping.” Well, if my husband hadn’t been on board before, now was his chance to jump on the ship. Especially considering it had arrived peeping and I couldn’t send that ship back.

Kaytee and I zipped to the post office where they handed us a small, insulated box with air holes. The chicks had been born the day before, the nutrients from the egg still in their tummies. They had less than twenty-four hours to be shipped safely to our home. Excitedly, we opened the box and peered in. Five, fuzzy balls of feathers cried out: one auburn, one speckled, two soft gray, and one classic yellow. The line of parcel-carrying adults behind us gathered around to welcome Molly, Minnie, Becky, Jennie, and Shelly to Massachusetts.

We created a chicken nursery in our basement using a heat lamp and an old port-a-crib. Our newborns (or new-hatched) endured a constant parade of admiration from my children and visitors. Raising baby chicks infused another level of tenderness into my children. They would gently hold each fluff ball with cupped hands, the chick soon falling asleep from the warmth. Even Daisy, our bird-hunting Labrador, watched over them with the curiosity of Clifford the Big Red Dog, peering into the playpen netting. Kyle created a roosting area out of twigs and spent hours teaching each chick how to perch. I’m sure chicks innately learn to perch, but he was filled with parental pride similar to, “MY kid rode a bike with no training wheels at three-years-old,” and his efforts paid off: our chickies learned to roost at an early age. I always knew they were exceptional little fluffs!

Refusing to let this be an expensive venture, (the last thing my husband needed was economic reasons why chickens weren’t a good idea), I headed outside armed with duct tape, a staple gun, and a butter knife, intent on repurposing a neighbor’s plastic playhouse into a chicken coop. This, of course, inspired my husband to rescue our backyard from looking like a potential dump site under my architectural direction. I’m no idiot. I know if I want something done I need to do it myself or at least look like I’m going to do it myself. And what do you know? My husband offered to help create a loving home for our flock. Armed with a large roll of chicken wire, Ted and Kyle spent a long weekend building the coop. When the chickens turned three-months-old, we moved them into their own apartment with a future rent of thirty blue-green eggs a week.

Neighborhood kids flocked to our yard when we brought the hens out to roam in a small fenced area. The hens aerated our lawn with scratching, ate pesky bugs, and randomly fertilized the grass. We were quickly reminded they were birds after all, and they easily flew over the mobile fence. After escaping their playpen prison, they pecked and waddled around in pure bliss, always staying together in a clique. A chick clique, to be exact.

Raising and owning chickens turned out to be much easier than raising my own kids. After forgetting to put the hens away at night (more than once), we witnessed their nesting nature. At dusk, they would head into their coop, hop up onto the roosting branches, snuggle up together, and go to sleep without a single nag or plead from me. Why couldn’t my children go to bed as easily? Just wander into their rooms at 8:30 p.m. (teeth already brushed), climb into bed, and fall soundly asleep? Why couldn’t my kids be more like my chickens, at least in this area?

As time progressed, I liked my feathered family more and more. We began letting them out mid-morning, and they’d spend their days circling the house, never straying too far from home. On sunny days, I set aside my keyboard and sat on my bench to shift gears, soak in warm rays, and watch my Ladies. They too worshiped the sun. They would lie on their feathered sides in the dirt with one wing fanned and a long scaly leg extended like a 1940s calendar pin-up girl. They were intensely loyal to each other, and if one strayed, the others became ruffled and agitated until all were accounted for. They held private conversations with each other, their throaty “rrrrrr”s sharing secrets I couldn’t understand. They kept little Shelly, who was at the bottom of the pecking order, in line. As the only blonde Easter chick, she received a lot of human attention as a baby and I think the others resented it. 

It really wasn’t too long ago when everyone had chickens, yet, today they are an anomaly, odd and foreign. Many children came to my house wanting to know what kind of birds they were—not “is that a Rhode Island Red or a Barred Rock?”—but “what IS that?” These same kids could teach me about epi- pens, asthma inhalers, or which pretzel brand was allergy-friendly and could be shared at school, but they were a tad unfamiliar with a real, live chicken. Now I could show them how to pet one and search for a warm, fresh egg.

I’m surprised at how many adults don’t understand how chickens lay eggs—don’t the hens need a rooster? Hens are much like women when it comes to eggs. Human women release an egg once a month. If we had, say, a rooster around, it is possible our egg would be fertilized and develop into a baby. Without a rooster around, hens are free to lay their eggs not monthly, but daily. Without fertilization, they do not become chicks, but breakfast. No rooster, no chick, no man, no baby; just eggs all around. Some being better for scrambling, of course.

Looking out the kitchen window one afternoon, I witnessed my three children playing together good-naturedly and cheerfully. It was one of those divine mommy moments, watching my kids sitting criss-cross-applesauce on top of the picnic table, each snuggling a chicken in his or her lap. They were deep in conversation, possibly telling stories or sharing secrets never-to-be-discussed-with-Mom. They referred to this special time together as “chicken conversation.” If I didn’t already love these birds, this mere feat alone would have sealed the deal. Since coming into our lives, these birds provided our breakfast, put themselves to bed each night, and engendered warm feelings between brothers and sister. I have even heard my husband chatting away with the Ladies while he was doing yard work. If five birds could work this kind of magic, I silently wondered what effects seven would have on our family. Or nine?

Oh yes, their eggs were amazing as well! It’s easy to get wrapped up in the social aspects of chicken rearing when you live with them every day, but I originally brought them home to provide my family with nutritious, free-range, happy eggs. (Friendship was an ancillary benefit, but certainly no less important.) People ask me, “Is a free-range farm egg really better than a conventional store-bought one? How much different can an egg taste?” They are looking for me to confirm their suspicions that there is no difference between the two, except price. If you’ve never eaten a freshly laid egg, it is difficult to make verbal comparisons. The taste is meaty, rich, and thick, in a way difficult to describe unless it’s on the end of your fork.

If you are what you eat, then the same goes for a hen and its eggs. Visually speaking, a farm fresh egg has a deep orange yolk, not the pale yellow most people are used to. This is because a free-range chicken egg contains nutrients from many sources: bugs, spiders, leaves, grass, worms, chicken feed, and the occasional treat supplied by owners. The eggs are meatier (say when slicing through one cooked over-medium), and deviled eggs have more flavor. The chicken’s stress-free lifestyle, varied menu, and typically healthier living conditions, all significantly contribute to a healthier-for-you egg.[1]

Free-range farm eggs have more nutritional benefits than conventionally produced ones. Compared to conventional eggs, pastured eggs have:

 

• ·        1/3 less cholesterol
• ·        1/4  less saturated fat
• ·        2/3  more vitamin A
• ·        Two times more omega-3 fatty acids
• ·        Three times more vitamin E
• ·        Seven times more beta-carotene [i]

 

For those who say they can’t taste the difference between the two, I say, one is still better for you, better for the chickens, and better for our planet. Those reasons alone make pastured eggs the choice for my family. Molly, Minnie, Becky, Jennie, and Shelly agree.