Chicken and Egg - Janice Cole [8]
My chosen three were unceremoniously put into a tiny box with air holes. “Now, they’re all females, right?” I wanted reassurance from Tom that I didn’t have a rooster hidden in the group. “Well, they should be,” Tom fudged. “What do you mean they should be,” I shot back with a small note of panic. “We can’t guarantee it. But don’t worry; we’ll take back any roosters,” he replied. Oh, great, now I have to worry about crowing, I thought as I paid $3.95 per chick and headed to the car. Marty will really love that.
I stopped worrying about whether I might have a rooster and drove home, excited that I finally had my own chickens. It wasn’t until years later that I learned what happens to all the roosters no one wants. The dark side of the hatchery business is shocking. Half of the chicks born are males. Most of them are ground up live by the binful or smothered to death for dog food or fertilizer. Those of us who don’t have a place for noisy roosters in our picturesque backyard flocks are but a tiny part of the problem. The simple fact is roosters don’t lay eggs. They also take longer to raise for meat, requiring more feed, which costs extra money. So the meat industry has no use for them. Plus, the meat doesn’t taste the same as the bland chicken we’ve all become accustomed to. Roosters are like the daughters in some cultures around the world—no one wants them.
I arrived home from the feed store frazzled and slightly deaf in one ear from the chicks’ high-pitched peeping. I’d only been with them for forty minutes, and they were already driving me nuts. If the next two months are going to be like this, I thought as I walked into the house, God help us all. You see, these chicks had to bunk with us inside the house until they feathered out and the weather warmed up. Marty had no idea what he was in for. I’ll admit I may have left out a few of the specifics before rushing off to the feed store, figuring he’d find out soon enough. I really thought the cute baby chicks would win him over. I was wrong.
My less-than-excited husband played his part by ignoring the whole situation. It was a major feat, since the large plastic storage tub I turned into a brooder sat in the family room within view of my office, the kitchen, and the living room. Any thought of moving the brooder to the basement or an out-of-the-way bedroom was no longer an option, as I decided the fragile chicks needed monitoring.
The chicks needed names. I considered the two Easter egg chicks. Their gold and black markings are striking when they’re small, and the chickens look regal as they age. The smaller one had eye markings that rivaled Elizabeth Taylor’s makeup in Cleopatra, so I named her Cleo, although Marty argued she was going for the goth look. I named the second Easter egg chick Lulu, which quickly changed to Crazy Lulu as her personality became evident. Larger, stronger, and more forceful than Cleo, she was determined to get her own way all of the time.
I decided to let Marty name the last chick, my Buff Orpington, an energetic girl covered in golden fluff. I should have known better. He named her after “Roxanne,” the hit song by the Police, because of the red heat light that hovered over the brooder the chicks were in. Maybe that’s why this chick struts around with so much attitude and stays up half the night!
Extra-Creamy Scrambled Eggs over Buttermilk-Chive Biscuits
I call these eggs my risotto-style scrambled eggs because the cooking method is similar to the one for risotto. You cook the eggs slowly over low heat, stirring constantly while you gradually add the cream. The eggs should form very tiny curds or no curds at all. The result is velvety, delicate eggs, tender and moist. Served over