Farm-fresh eggs from free-range chickens

Grandma kept chickens throughout most of my childhood. I thought the chickens were hilarious. I laughed at the way they walked, how they stuck out their necks with each step. I laughed when they tried to fly. They were busy things, always chasing after bugs. Grandma didnt have many bugs; the chickens ate them all.
When I visited, my chore was to gather eggs. That was hardly a chore. I thought gathering eggs was a privilege. I loved the smell of the coop and the taste of farm-fresh eggs. The yolks were a deeper yellow and the flavor was much more intense than anything bought in the store.
I didnt think their beaks were funny, though. Grandma said that I could take eggs from underneath the setting hens. I tried that once. Hen didnt appreciate my actions and pecked me. I stayed away from occupied nests after that. That beak was sharp!
Grandma finally dispensed with her chickens about the time I went to college. Grandpa tore down the chicken house. Three years later, Grandma dug the soil underneath the chicken house and put it on her garden. The plants came up, then died. That soil was too hot even after three years. Grandma didnt have much garden that year. The only veggies she harvested were in corners where the chickenized soil hadnt reached. The next year made up for it. She had never had such bountiful crops in decades of gardening.
The farm was never quite the same post-chickens. I missed their soft clucking and their funny strut. And I sure missed fresh eggs and Grandmas fried chicken. Store-bought chicken just does not compare to free-range, bug-eating chicken. The flavor just is not there.
Now Im getting hungry!
2 Comments:
Nice chicken story. I have a friend that raises chickens and eggs, lives just a few miles from Butte but his flocks ended up attracting a bear. Big problem, since the bear had to be trapped and moved and if it bothers anyone else (which it probably will, now that it's been habituated to humans as a source of food) it'll be killed. Sort of a moral quandry for those on the urban fringe: they move there because they love the "wildness," but the wildness gets compromised by their very presence...
Seems like we hurt what we love.
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