I typically prefer my chicken wrapped up in cellophane and sporting a barcode. I’m real traditional like that.
But my hubby decided that our suburban existence was missing a vital element. He felt the calling, people, and plunged head-first into what has become his new religion.
That’s right. We’re chicken farmers. Farmers. Of chickens. In the suburbs.
Now, I am well aware of the growing “backyard farmer” trend and understand it to a certain degree, I guess. Apparently there’s something wrong with buying the offspring of our feathered friends from the supermarket. Apparently I have been doing detrimental damage to my family by serving them up sparkly white eggs.
Enter the chickens.
We started out with two Rhode Island Reds (listen to me sounding all legit!) appropriately named Ginger and Scarlet.
Husband spent my kid’s college savings on building them some posh digs. I mean, we’re nothing if not devoted farmers.
And then we started rockin’ and rollin’. The chickens were popping out eggs left and right. My hubby would run out to the coop every morning, gather his bounty, throw some high-fives at his girls and come in the kitchen with a smug “yes, I’m doing my part for this environment” look written all over his face.
And just when I’m pretty sure the hubby was ready to send in his application to the Chicken Farmers of America his good work came to a crashing halt. Ginger was sick. She took up residence in a cushy little corner of our bathtub while my man attempted to recuperate the little chicken. But, alas, it wasn’t meant to be and Ginger went home to be with her Maker in, I’m assuming, a heavenly plane of plush grass and worms a’plenty.
Sure that our new(ish) backyard venture was to be thwarted with this loss I started perusing the sales ads for Eggland’s Best. I barely had enough time to compare market prices when my hubby shows up with four new baby chicks. Four. Apparently you can’t change the world with just one chicken.
The ladies have not started laying yet but I’m quite sure that when they do we will have eggs coming out the wazoo. I mean our wazoos. Not the chicken’s. Because eggs literally do come out of their wazoos.
You get my point.
This should be fun. In a chicken poop/bawk, bawk, bawk/egg wazoos kind of way.