the eggs and I

Remember last APRIL when we got our chicks in the mail? Like, you know, FOREVER AGO?

Also, I'm using caps lock a lot in this post because of the fact that it's ELEVEN MONTHS LATER and we FINALLY got ONE egg. 

Ok, I'll stop. 

NOT. 

Turns out all that clucking going on actually produces results. Really pretty results!

Also, I may have just done a happy dance when I found the first egg.

Literally.

In a chicken coop. 

Don't judge. 

I don't think you people realize how I was pretty much giving up all hope that these birds would ever lay an egg.

We started out with five hens and a rooster and now we're down to three hens and no rooster. 

It's a long story. 

A long, painful story. 

As in, remind me to tell you about the time I almost ran over a chicken with my car. Gah. The memory is still painful. But honestly, how did she NOT SEE ME COMING?

There I go with the caps lock again. 

Let's just rejoice that the lost has been found, shall we?

So bring on the omelettes and made-from-scratch cakes. WE HAVE EGGS!

Caps lock . . . signing off. 

may day baskets farm style

My maternal grandma was the queen of the May basket. 

Hers weren't necessarily fancy. She just used plastic strawberry cartons, those holey ones that were a lovely shade of green, and threaded ribbon through the holes.

ordering chickens

When I was six, I slipped in a pile of wet chicken poop, and my middle sister Lauren laughed at me.

It was raining, and our seventy-five chickens were in their fenced-in little yard, pecking around in the dirt outside the chicken house. “Get outside,” Mom ordered us. “Run those chickens in.” 

Nobody wants to deal with muddy, wet, sad birds. Nobody. It’s just downright pitiful.