“Let’s get chickens,” he said...that was just the beginning. We had just moved to our new house on 5 acres, and my husband couldn’t order those chickens fast enough! I love our house. I love our view of the mountains, the sunken living room and that our neighbors are more that a stones throw away. But chickens? Really? I tried to fight the idea and even snapped at my husband saying, “I’ll never be a farm girl!” And have repeated it many times since. I am a Jersey girl not a farm girl! But, the call came in on that Monday morning that a box of baby chicks were waiting to be picked up at the post office. Ok, so they were cute, maybe this won’t be so bad after all, I thought. Fast forward two days. Two days of them being in a box in my laundry room because it was too cold for them to be outside. Oh yeah, they were still cute but even the cutest fluffiest chicks couldn’t make up for the smell of their poop!
The chicks grew up to be roosters and hens. The hens started to do what hens do, lay eggs. I had a hard time with that, not that they laid eggs but that I was supposed to eat them. I just couldn’t bring myself to eat something that came out of something that grew up in my yard. Yuck. I prefer my eggs to come pre washed in a styrofoam container. What’s wrong with that? But the eggs kept coming. I had to do something with them. It took some time but I gradually started baking with them and I noticed that I didn’t die. That was good. After about a year of not dying after eating baked goods, I ate an egg. A plain ole egg. An egg that was not pre washed and sold a styrofoam container. And I lived to tell about it, but that does not make me a farm girl!
Jen=)
