Some people say eggs from pastured chickens taste better. They certainly are more appetizing to look at, with their deep yellow yolks. Surely you can tell which is which?

Some say they are even healthier. They are certainly fresher. Seriously, when was the last time you ate an egg that was still warm from laying? The chalazae (that stringy ropey thing that anchors the yolk) are also clearly visible. And, as you can see above, keep the egg white compact in cooking.

The best part, however, is simply that they are a lot more fun.

I have never run to WalMart, just to have a quick peek at the egg aisle, though you’ll frequently find me standing over our little chicken tractor just watching the chickens do their thing.

I have never looked in an egg cooler with the same hopeful curiosity with which I peer into our chickens’ nest box.

Upon discovering eggs in the egg cooler, I have never felt anything like the thrill I feel at finding a small, brown egg amongst the grasses in the nest box.

And never, have I ever, called my parents to let them know that WalMart had eggs. They did, however, know our hens had begun laying within hours of the event.

And my children? They are ecstatic, running out to check on the nest box every chance they get. My son even staked out the chicken tractor for two hours one day to try to establish which chicken had begun laying. (Three of ours lay brown eggs, one lays white ones). He had no luck, but the discovery of two eggs later in the day confirmed that someone else had begun laying as well!

Oh, and unless you have chickens, too, I bet you’ve never opened the refrigerator just to peek at your eggs. They are beautiful things. Edible art.

chickens eggs, backyard chicken

I trudge out to the mailbox, slopping through mud in my husband’s snow boots thinking I really need to buy myself some shoes suited to our new life. Hunter greets the mailman’s jeep with barking and prancing, ready for the race to the treeline where he always stops, satisfied that he has yet again driven off the intruder.

A bill, a postcard, The Penny Press and. . .oh happy day. . .Orscheln’s flyer.  The local feed store has quickly become my favorite local hangout. I lament all the days wasted wandering WalMart during AWANAs when I could have just as easily visited the feed store across the street.  But that was then, before we had five acres, before we had chickens even.

Then, WalMart defined my world in a strange sense.  Today, Orscheln’s does. But as we research and plan and dream, I sense something else on the horizon. Something that doesn’t have a name, or a logo or a weekly flyer. But more on that later.

I toss the mail on the counter, reserving Orscheln’s flyer to look through over breakfast. I open it up and what should I see in bold green print but “Chicks Are Here!”

Up until this very minute, I had intended on getting our next batch of chickens from a hatchery.  Up until this very minute, I had been frustrated by the minimum orders required by hatcheries or the use of roosters as packing peanuts.  I didn’t need 25 birds, but it looked like ordering from a hatchery was going to provide me with 25 birds, whether I paid for them all or not.

At this very minute, I realize that the feed store really was a better option for us right now.

To no one in particular, I announce that I am going to be at the feed store at 8:45, fifteen minutes before they open.

Why, mommy?

It’s Chick Days.

My husband rolls his eyes. The children leap with excitement. They know what Chick Days are. That’s where they got the four hens we currently have. But we got those at the tail end of the yearly event and pretty much got what was left over. This year would be different. This year, we would get first choice because this year we would be sitting in the parking lot when the doors open.

Yeah, I’m a little weird like that.

Less than 24 hours later and ten minutes before Orscheln’s officially opens, Bear, Bug and I are heading back to the chicks, led by the sound of their peeping. They dart back and forth, trying to look at them all at once. I concentrate on one bin: Plymouth Rock, straight run.

This year, in addition to layers, we are adding on a rooster. A rooster to guard the flock. A rooster to strut about the property. A rooster to crow in the wee hours of the morning and remind us of just how beautiful each and every morning is. A rooster for fertile eggs.

So I ponder the Plymouth Rock, straight run bin.  Straight run means they’re unsexed.  In theory, half of them should be male. How many would I need to guarantee I got at least one rooster? What would I do with a second or even a third?

Someone arrives to help us and I ask somewhat stupidly,

Theoretically, half of these are males, right? So theoretically, if I get five, we should end up with two or three roosters?

He smiles, not sure how to answer the obvious. I smile back, understanding the dilemma I’ve put him in. “It’s ok,” I try to say with that smile. “I’m just thinking out loud.”

Happy with my statistics, I ask for five.

Bear begins to squeal as he recognizes the little Rhode Island Red pullets.

Diego! Diego! They’re just like Diego!

That was the breed he selected last year. He carries her around the property, showing her everything and teaching her to be an explorer like her namesake.

I ask for one of those.

Bear then moves to the Americaunas, fascinated by their many colors.

Are these leghorns? he asks.

No, they’re Americaunas.

Bear and Bug light up simultaneously.

Oh, canwecanwe?!  They lay blue and green eggs, mom! Canwecanwe?!

I ask for four of those.

I look at the Plymouth Rock pullets. Unsure why, I am suddenly drawn to these, a breed I’ve never paid any particular attention to, a breed that has never made it on either my “must check out” or “must avoid” list. A new thought is forming in my mind. I already have five.

I ask for two more.

I ask what is crossed to make a production red. The young man guesses Rhode Island Red and…and, well, something else. “Maybe leghorn?” he ventures. Still, my attention has fallen on them for more than a brief moment.

I ask for one.

Will that be everything?

No, not quite.

Not quite. The new idea, not yet fully formed, needs a point of comparison. Cornish crosses are the standard for meat birds. Ready for slaughter at just six weeks, they present minimal investment in time though they tend to camp out at the feeder, moving only for a drink. They grow so fast, their little legs are known to break under the rapidly increasing weight.

I ask for five.

And now for the comparison.

On their third day with us, you can see that the Cornish Cross (left) is starting to show just a little more size than the Plymouth Rock (right). It feels firmer and more meaty, as well. This is where I discover that our small scale is broken so I can’t do an official weight comparison, but we’ll remedy that over the weekend.

Stay tuned to watch these guys grow toward our dinner table, complete with recipes for how they are eventually served!  Also, if you are interested in raising your own chicks, stay tuned for some rare weekend posting as I discuss the why and how of beginning a small backyard flock.

homeschool home education chickens raising chickens Cornish Cross Plymouth Rock

The sun is barely breaking over the trees in the east and I’m standing in front of the coop, just watching. Watching the sun rise. Watching the dogs wrestle. Watching the chickens dart back and forth, eating our leftovers from the night before. They never just sit still and eat what is in front of them. Their little heads bob, this way and that. I used to think they were picking out their favorite bits, for they certainly do have their favorite morsels, but they behave the same way when the treats are all the same.

So now I know they’re just chickens and that’s just what chickens do.

The birds are relatively quiet. There is a call now and again. A jay squawks in the treeline. A bird I have not yet identified hides in a bush behind me and makes its “peep, prrreeep.” An entire murder of crows rises from the trees down by the river and flies silently overhead, just beginning to disperse on the other side of our property. I wonder for a moment if they are the reason I have not seen any hawks. And I am a little surprised at just how quiet the morning is.

Still, I just stand there. I’m not really sure how long it has been since I opened the coop door, but not the dogs are just standing in front of me, watching and waiting. They’ve already licked the bowl we use to store our leftovers clean, but they don’t know what to do next until I move. If I walk the property, they will romp off that direction. If I head toward the house, they will be waiting at the door when I get there.

Still, I just stand there. I’m not really thinking about anything. The chickens are almost finished with the tuna fish I pulled out of the back of the refrigerator and are moving on to the carrot peelings from the carrots I put in my husband’s cooler for his trip to Ravenna. The sleet turns to snow and I look up at the sky, asking the dogs if they think we really will get five inches.

I’m soaked, and decide it is probably time to get back to the house. It’s warm inside and the children are just beginning to wake, greeting me in their pajamas with sleep still in their eyes.

Where were you, mommy?

Just feeding the chickens.

And that’s all I really was doing, but it left me refreshed and energized for the day.

chickens chores homesteading