Fresh Eggs

So . . . once again, optimism triumphs over experience.

Longtime readers of the Bee Drunken adventures-in-farming will know about Ralph and Lauren -- who used to be our chickens.  Perhaps they are someone else's chickens now; maybe they didn't like the fact that my oldest daughter kept changing their names?  Possibly, they wandered off to seek greener pastures.  Quite probably, the wily fox got them -- although he didn't leave any feathery evidence.  All we know for sure is that when we got home from our Spanish cycling trip, those chickies were gone.  They had flown the coop.

I will admit that I dealt well with my grave loss.  After all, who was the one who waded through the mud all through the winter to feed them?  Who scraped all of the chicken poo and hay off the eggs?  Whose flower borders were wrecked, more than once?

As time went by, though, my hard feelings softened.  As I gazed out of our kitchen window, my eyes would inevitably fall on the empty hen hut.  And I would feel just a teensy bit sad.

There were practical reasons, too, to miss our poultry.  For one thing, the stale bread kept piling up.  Also, as I bake a lot, we never seemed to have eggs anymore.  I was always forgetting to buy them after three years of a steady supply.

Unsurprisingly, when my youngest daughter started making noise about getting more chickens it really wasn't that difficult to wear me down.  Yes, I am a sucker.  Not only that, instead of holding the line at two chickens (one for each child), we left the farm with FOUR chickens -- two of which (whom?) won't even be earning their keep for another 9 months.  "But Mommy, they are so fluffy and cute!"  Yea, yea.

Do you dear bloggy readers realize just how many breeds of chickens there are?

We bought our chickens from a 13 year old astoundingly knowledgeable farmer's son.  He had a dozen breeds at least, and he tried his best to educate us on their finer points:  how to tell males from females when they are young, what color of eggs they each have, etc.   I was somewhat overwhelmed, though, by the profusion of farm animals.  The main thing that I learned, and can pass on to you, is that an unruly chicken may be "tamed" by grasping it by the legs and flipping it upside-down.  Apparently, the blood rushes to its meager brain and it immediately goes docile for you.  Well, it worked for the farmer's son; I didn't test the technique, actually.

My youngest daughter immediately determined that we must have the "white silkie" breed.  They lay very small eggs, but compensate for this shortcoming by being soft and cuddly.  Frankly, I think they are the "dumb blondes" of the chicken world.  It has already become obvious that they don't eat a lot of carbs, either.  Ralph and Lauren were plain, but they were sturdy and reliable egg layers.  They could dispatch half a loaf of bread, no problem.  These dainty dimbos haven't laid an egg yet and they keep trying to eat the baby chick food.

One of my daughter's friends raises chickens, and her only comment on the white silkies was: They are really stupid chickens.  Since all poultry is fairly dumb, this is hardly a recommendation.

Still, my daughters spent all weekend gazing adoringly at them.  They promised me that, unlike last time, they are going to take care of these chickens.

I give it a week.  Maybe two.

Green Acres is the place to be . . .

"Farm living is the life for me"

I've always thought of myself as a city girl. Just give me a whiff of that acrid city air and it's like leaded petrol in my veins.

For three years now I've been out of my natural habitat, and bogged down in the countryside. Instead of taxi fumes, the air smells of wet grass, honeysuckle and the earthy tang of manure.

I've adjusted to clean air; I've come to love the quiet of the place; but the one thing that I cannot wrap my head around is the subject of animal husbandry.

I live next-door to a farm, and every morning as I depart for the school-run I see some unfortunate jodphured person mucking out the stables. It combines everything I like least: mud, stench and hooves. I'm deeply grateful for the work that farmers do, mostly because I'm glad that I don't have to procure my food the hard way. I know that I am like Marie Antoinette at Le Petit Trianon, dabbling in my strawberry plants and hen's eggs, but I'm content to rely on the grocery store as our primary food source.

Although I exist on the fringes of actual agriculture, occasionally I will wander into the trenches, and then be as surprised as an Alice who fell through the rabbit hole.

Last Friday night, my husband and I attended a Farmer's Ball -- my rather airy description of a fundraising event to help local farmers in times of need. (It's an emergency fund, really.) General impressions: Lovely Food (new potatoes and rare roast beef and properly sweet strawberries) but Worst Disco Ever. (The Nolan Sisters? The music was cheesy more than 30 years ago.)

I was sat by a German farmer and his wife; I will call them Hans and Helga. They are the most extraordinary pair: equally strapping and hearty, and always smiling and laughing. They are like a cross between an apple dumpling and an Oom-Pah Band. You might think that the stress and disappointments of farming would result in dour dispositions, but these two act like the world and everything in it is a great jolly joke.

I've no idea how Hans and Helga came to live in West Berkshire, but they've been local fixtures for two decades at least. I've known them for about a decade, and encountered them mostly at chilly "summer" barbeques and Bonfire Nights. Perhaps because I am usually leaning against the AGA, trying to stay warm, they tend to tease me. They treat me like a delicate flower or lace doily: something pretty, "precious," and ineffectual. Although I am usually wearing jeans and a fleece, they make me feel like Eva Gabor in a filmy peignoir.

Despite generalized good-will and a casual fondness, Helga and I tend to bring out the stereotype in each other. When I discovered that she was originally from Bayreuth, I immediately asked her if she had ever been to the Festival. She found this deeply hilarious. "But doesn't everyone ask you this?" I said. "No one! Never has anyone asked me this!" she replied. "Only YOU would know this," she chortled, and then leaned over to share with Hans this great joke. Then, widening her eyes, she confided me: "I did see The Ring Cycle once. Ten hours on a wooden bench. NEVER AGAIN."

At some point, the conversation turned, inevitably, to chickens. I have two hens; Helga has sixty, give or take a cockerel. She proceeded to tell me a lurid tale, sort of a cross between Chicken Run and The Exorcist.

For reasons which weren't entirely clear, Helga decided to "do away" with one of her cockerels -- a mean and stringy old fellow. First, she bashed him unconscious with a wooden board. Then, she cut his throat with a knife to finish him off. Finally, she buried him deep in the muck heap "so that the dogs wouldn't eat him." (Each stage of this murder was related to me with much chuckling and chortling.)

Has anyone guessed the punchline? It was the chicken who just wouldn't die. The next day, one of her daughters commented on the "strange chicken" walking around the yard like a drunken sailor. Like a grisly spectre, the cockerel had risen from the muck heap . . . and was listing around, head lolling at its side.

Apparently, he went on to make a full recovery.

Knife crime takes on surprising forms in the countryside.

one of my pampered chickens