My garage smells like chicken. Not the delicious fried-chicken-of-Sunday-dinner kind of smell. Not the fast-food-bag-left-in-your-car smell. My garage aroma is the dusty feathers-cracked corn-poop kind of smell. It lingers. But it makes me happy.
We were the recipients of a 4 adorable yellow feathery balls as an Easter practical joke. The cute little peepers showed up in a large bucket with a cute little water and food dispenser, a bag of starter crumbles and a heat lamp.
They were free at first but their tab is, now, over $400. . . . Meet Maisey, Daisy, Bonnie and Roy! They are California whites and now live in a chicken house we bought from the farm store. They moved out of my garage weeks ago. They will lay white eggs.
I grew up with feisty bantam chickens, colorful free rangers who fought off the foxes and made the dogs take cover, but were content to let us come in and collect the brown shelled eggs.
Lately, I’ve been getting my eggs from local growers, my neighbors and friends with chickens. I occasionally have to buy a dozen at the store but none compare to the deep yellow yolked beauties that hold my pancakes together, scramble my ham and grace the deviled egg tray. The smell is far back into the recesses of my memory when I think of the nourishment the eggs give my body, and the love the chickens receive from their farmer. The time sitting and observing my 4 girls is meditative and relaxing. I know it will take several years before I have ‘free’ eggs based on the housing I have invested in for them. But it makes me happy.
I know where my food comes from. I am raising (some of) it myself.