3 Ring Binder

If variety is the spice of life, we gathered some spicy eggs here yesterday.   The first is a standard chicken egg, the second, some sort of squib we found among the other eggs in the nesting boxes, and the third, a surprise find when shooing the female zebra finch out of the seed feeder last night! Despite the fact that each morning when I uncover the zebra finches I find Elizabeth as far away from Mr. Darcy as possible within the confines of the bird cage, apparently, they’ve been getting busy. Actually, like all birds in captivity, female zebra finches are as likely to lay unfertilized eggs as fertilized ones. Stephen was told at the pet store—and I have confirmed to the best of my internet search abilities—that caged zebra finches make terrible parents and the eggs should be removed immediately. So I removed them, but was extremely curious about what could possibly be inside the tiny eggs.   Since it takes only two weeks for a finch egg to hatch, I was a little nervo...

Apparently we should not have named one of our Rhode Island Reds after Olympic runner Jesse Owens. Lately, she’s been getting in touch with her “maleness”. Much more interesting is lesbian activity between chickens. Not so violent as chicken heterosexuality, lesbianism in chickens results when the dominant hen mates with the attractive underling. We have observed some curious configurations in the field. The dominant chicken might mount "the bitch", (usually the same chicken gets this honor every time), while the other chickens circle quickly around, become rigid and stare intensely at the dominant chicken, acting as supports or balance points so that it will not topple over during "the act" (whatever that is for lesbian chickens...) You too may notice some rather organized lesbian activity in a flock comprised only of hens. This is normal. They're not really hurting each other, though at times it may appear so. Apparently they all find it entertaining. You kno...

What do you think of our new product design logo? Dozen it look sharp? Okay. That's un oeuf.

Despite Hermione's confusion between a bucket and a pot, I think this picture of my little self-sacrificing friend begs for a clever caption.  Suggestions requested.

After being cooped up all winter, we had to get outside and stretch our wings in today's beautiful weather.  Even if we aren't all spring chickens. And while I didn't actually have any spring chicken this weekend, I did have some fantastic tasting, and looking, food and drink. A cool cafe mocha at the Javaroom with the teenager after prom dress shopping. Our Atlas Shrugged Saturday night reading snack. Dual berry blast crepe and bacon brunch as photographed by the youngest this morning.  Steak Diane for two Sunday dinner (with asparagus and prosciutto with truffle oil, leek rings and romaine micro-salad, and Famiglia Bianchi Malbec wine at chez Bourque this evening) . It's good to be me.

I knew there was Gentian violet in the formula . Yet, somehow, I was not moved to put down newspaper when spraying the feet of one of my chickens who apparently had become the victim of something (most likely another chicken). Now I have this lovely modern art exhibit permanently installed in my mud room – until I repaint. Upon finding me laughing at my own stupidity while attempting to clean it up, my husband noted the titular truism and then said, “I’m just glad I didn’t do it.” And the chicken? She is getting personalized attention, exotic spa treatments (her name is Barbie), and should be re coop erated fully by Monday.  

Whilst I was gone on a women's adventure weekend (hopefully more on that later), one of my ladies laid an egg! I was both horrified and delighted! Horrified that I was not home for this momentous occasion, and delighted that they're starting to lay! Eggs! Yay! Stephen found the egg on the ground (not in the lovely nesting boxes he made for them) and had no idea which of the ladies laid the egg. One look at the egg and then at the birds and it wasn't hard for this farmer's wife to tell. It was Barbie. The eggs (oh,yes - now there are two) are a blue-green typical of an Easter Egger, and Barbie has been doing some rather strange dropping, droopy dances leaving the coop. Until I saw the eggs, I thought it was probably Starburst as she is by far the fattest bird and has taken a mother hen role in the coop. Now that she's started laying I think Barbie needs more time in the coop and less time outside. Eggs Inthedirt is not a favorite of mine.

Although I've resigned myself to being the gentleman farmer's wife, I haven't abandoned my fashion sense. Here are my new chicken slogging boots. Yup. They're leopard print. The boot scraper is how you can tell we're real farmers, by the way. Even though they're designed to look like a Big Cat, the Ladies love them! And speaking of the Ladies, they have quite the fashionable outer wear as well. One of these things is not like the other... Two colors of Rhode Island Reds fronted by a Barred Plymouth Rock. A Golden Laced Wyandotte and a another Barred Rock. And some of them are quite photogenic. Where is the Farmer, you may ask? He's in the dell, of course. After so many days of rain, we're just excited to get outside and do what needs to be done!

If you, like me, happen to remember that Farside cartoon from over 25 years ago, then you can envision what my chick-chickens looked liked today when they got into their run. They followed me from the coop and very enthusiastically installed themselves in the run in seconds. But within a minute of my closing the gate all of them were lying in odd positions throughout the run. I thought their over-enthusiasm about their release from the coop had killed them! Then I remembered. Last night, although it was rainy, it was kind of warm. I suggested that we turn off the red light for the evening. When Stephen went into the coop this morning, the ladies weren't settled comfortably on their perches as normal, but huddled in a corner. I'm guessing from their sudden bouts of narcolepsy this afternoon that they didn't sleep at all last night. They're addicted to the red light! We'll have to get one that isn't infrared for the summer - or wean them from their dependency...

Today, I welcome a guest blogger, my youngest daughter who felt like writing a story . Once upon a time, Bob saw a chicken. :-) ~:> “AWWWWW!” he cried. “How cute!” Bob’s mom and dad were very stern. :-( :-( “Chickens are filthy!” cried his mom. She had a hollow, stuck-up voice, and she talked like she was in an opera. She hadn’t even looked at the chicken. “They take mud baths!” said his dad. He talked in only one note: a low C. “Uhh, so do I, dear. It‘s good for your skin. Soooo… these chickens take… healthy baths?” :-( :-o :-) ~:> “I guess…” said Bob in a sing-songy voice, hoping his mom was caving in. “Oh, how… smart , they are. Oh, they are kind of cute … in a way… you know… I wouldn’t mind one… in fact… I’d even, maybe like one…” The dad, though, was still unhappy. :-( :-) :-) ~:> “It would get in the way of my cooking! Getting feathers in my mushrooms and eggs, which I loooooooooooove.” “Dad! Chickens lay eggs!” “They do?” his dad asked suddenly in a high C. :-o :-) :-...

In moving the chick-chickens from their coop into their run this morning, I made a casual remark to my daughter about being the pied piper. Apparently, I have failed at my parental duty in that she had no idea what this meant. When I began to explain the story, I realized that I didn’t actually know it enough to explain it well. Should you ever find yourself in a similar situation (with or without chickens), I’m here to save you from a similar fate. The Pied Piper of Hamelin is thought to have originated in thirteenth or fourteenth century Germany about a town overrun with rats. One day a man shows up in minstrel clothing (‘pied’ meaning two different colors) and says he can take care of the problem for an agreed upon fee. The townspeople agree and the Piper attracts all the rats out of town with his pipe playing. He leads them all to a river where they drown. When he comes back to collect his fee, the townspeople try to renegotiate the deal. "Beside,'' quoth the Mayor wit...

Last weekend the coop, this weekend, the run. Too bad they're not actually connected. We were lucky enough to get a big dog kennel for the price of unscrewing and picking it up at my friend's house - thanks Sue! The large kennel will enable us to keep the chickens safe, but move them all about the yard in sort of a free-but-safe-range set-up (yes, just like my parenting). On Saturday we rebuilt the kennel in our backyard. If you've ever worked with over 40 linear feet of 5 1/2 foot high chain link fence - you know how much fun that was. Then we had to figure out how to actually move the chick-chickens from the coop into the run, which again, is not attached to the coop, so they could enjoy their days outside. Today, that process went something like this: "Let's open the door and see if they come out." "Approach them slowly so they don't spook." "I've got this one! You get that one!" "Hey. Where'd they go?" "All...

We’ve been working on our chicken coop this weekend (and by “we” I mean my husband and youngest daughter have been doing the physical work and I’ve been thinking about and organizing what else needs to be done). Right now I’m concentrating on the flooring, spatial arrangement, and safety features for the ladies. But mostly I’m preoccupied by the all important chicken sign that will hang above the coop doors. In s l o w l y reading The Forgotten Man by Amity Shlaes, I think I found the perfect words to grace our coop: The Schechter Poultry Corp. Perhaps few will understand the reference to A.L.A. Schechter Poultry Corporation v. United States , the Supreme Court battle between four brothers in Brooklyn and the massive regulatory NRA (National Recovery Administration), one of the first alphabet soup bureaucracies of the New Deal established under the NIRA (National Industrial Recovery Act) of 1933. It might, however, prompt some questions from curious visitors. The Schechter case is f...

Friday: I constructed transitional housing for the transitional chicks and moved them into the garage. It’s amazing how powerful an incentive the smell of chicken poop in the house can be. Saturday: I contributed in small part to the great big sound of our homeschool family chorus concert. There really is nothing like the sound of the little kids singing, except the feeling of getting to sing with them ( and the satisfaction of remembering all those words when it really counts ). Sunday: I shared hours of laughter and good food with my mother and mother-in-law (and father and father-in-law) from the morning into the early afternoon and played tennis with my daughters on a gorgeous, warm, and breezy late Sunday afternoon. Life is good.

Dispelling chicken myths, one picture at a time.

Today was an another unseasonably warm day in the northeast, so we took the ladies out again. Here are the pictures I promised. Here they are milling around in the pen, being pretty happy. And here they are one second later after I say, "Hey chickens!" which I normally do. Don't believe me? Here it is in video: And before you ask: No - my voice is not normally that high pitched, and Yes - I do, on occasion, laugh like Muttley from Wacky Races.

If you've ever seen a pig eat, you know it's hard to stop yourself from saying, "It's such a pig!" If you've ever introduced chickens to a new environment - same thing. (photos tomorrow)

No, not her - me. I'm happy to report that all eight chicks are still doing fine. One is clearly smaller than the rest but has become a sort of scrapper so I like that. Both Plymouth Rock hens keep pasting up, so not only is that disgusting, but it's exhausting for them to get things straightened out. I actually feel very badly about taking them from their nice warm home and poking and prodding and getting them wet. I'm not used to feeling badly about doing things that need to get done. Speaking of their nice warm home, at what temperature do you suppose I'll get fried chicken? It was 115 degrees right under the light today! Of course there were other areas of the brooder where is was 80, so it averaged out okay, but they were sprawled out right under the fry-o-later light. I raised the lamp, but they are either too stupid to move to a more conducive-to-life temperature, or they were shipped from some where near the equator. So I fixed it so that right under the light w...

Now that I have your attention... Yesterday, the ladies arrived in all their shipping box glory at our local post office (strangely with all the purposefully placed air holes covered up by shipping stickers). Our concerns that some might have died during shipping were not lessened by the postal worker who said, “Chicks? Really? I can usually hear them.” Happily, they just seem to be quietish chicks - for now. So, without further ado, I present to you, in no particular order, The Chicks at 95 Degrees : Jessie and Strawberry, the Rhode Island Reds , Tushy and Mushy, the barred Plymouth Rocks , Starburst and Hermione, the Golden-Laced Wyandottes , And Barbie and Alpha, the Easter Eggers . It’s true: there is no such breed as Easter Egger, but you can read about why they’re called that here . Of course, all these names are subject to change as their feathers and personality emerge. For instance, the Wyandottes should really be Fred and George since they're basically twins. And Jessi...