Here's the thing.
Chickens are ridiculously addictive.
One minute, I think I've had enough. ENOUGH!
I gear myself up to do away with these feathery creatures
once and for all and try to stomach the idea of buying eggs at the grocery store.
Then, the very next minute, I'm outside baby-talking to them.
Or lecturing them.
They are naughty sometimes.
The truth is, backyard poultry gets in your blood and just when you're
putting a big pot on the stove for chicken soup,
you start pouring over chicken catalogs to figure out what variety you'll buy next.
It's a weird fixation, really.
And I'm completely fixated.
I just wish they tasted a little more like a sirloin.
They are quirky little things, these chickens.
I found the majority of my flock out in the woods today.
It's no wonder they end up as coyote box-lunches so often.
Bright, they are not.
And on my little tour, I found a nest full of eggs hidden in a pile of dead tree branches.
Blast it all!
Who knows how long they've been there.
So I clearly couldn't keep them.
This is the problem with free-ranging.
I hate wasting eggs with all my heart. It grates away at my soul, I tell you.
This hen loves me.
Like, REALLY loves me; follows me around everywhere and asks me daily to take her inside
and let her live in the house with the people.
I always say no.
I'll have none of that!
Cold and heartless, I am.
Here's another little nesty-nest that I discovered last week.
I'm so onto them with this one.
And collect eggs here every day.
And just like that, I have a tank-top filled with eggs with my impromptu gathering.
That's so fun.
I don't know why, but gathering eggs make me skip with delight!
I'm thinking of putting a recliner and TV in my hen house,
you know, so the chickens and I can have some down-time together to bond further.
And some much needed therapy for all of us.
Scrambled eggs for dinner, anyone?