Chicken and Egg - Janice Cole [94]
½ cup heavy (whipping) cream
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut up
2 eggs plus 1 egg yolk
¼ cup sugar
1⁄8 teaspoon salt
Sweetened whipped cream for serving (optional)
How Long Do Chickens Live?
Raising chickens is a commitment—some can live to be fifteen years old. Often chickens don’t make it past five or six years due to predators, disease, or other problems. However, most chickens will live past the one or two years that laying facilities keep their chickens before culling them and getting younger birds. Well-cared-for birds can produce eggs for many years, although not as consistently as young layers.
CHAPTER NINE
Late Winter
I grabbed a pale green egg laid by Cleo from the pottery bowl and tapped it firmly on the kitchen counter. Then I aggressively whisked three eggs for an omelet, keeping them whirling until they were very frothy. As I whisked, I thought back to the finest omelet I’d ever tasted. Although it was years ago, I remembered it well.
Our transatlantic flight arrived in Paris, and we took the high-speed rail to Lyon, where Marty was taking a class that summer. Our tired first glimpse of the city was from under the edge of a soggy umbrella as a cold rain poured down that chilly June day, giving everything a gloomy look. Hungry, we stopped at a simple bistro and ordered a light lunch. The omelets arrived golden and glistening. The eggs were so delicate and tender, they quivered as I stuck my fork into them. The plump omelet formed a perfect rectangle on the plate as though loving hands had tucked the stray frilly edges under, while bright flecks of green herbs flowed from the inside as my fork pierced the filling. We ate the omelets and a crisp baguette while sipping glasses of local white wine. The rain had stopped and the sun began to appear, and it seemed like nothing could taste so good or be so perfect again.
As the butter sizzled in the pan, I prepared to duplicate that meal by making an omelet with eggs from my own chicks. I waited until the butter had stopped sizzling and was just starting to turn lightly brown before pouring the eggs in the pan, fork at the ready. As soon as I poured in the eggs I swung into action, shaking the pan and stirring the eggs at the same time. In less than a minute, the omelet was ready. My omelet might not have been as beautiful, but it was as close as I’d come to duplicating the flavor. I now knew the French secret: freshly laid eggs.
* * *
The girls’ sporadic egg laying forced me to think more seriously about the reasons I was keeping chickens. Their egg laying had gone on the blink. Lulu was the only bird making deposits to the nest. What would happen when they all stopped laying and I wasn’t getting any more eggs? It seemed I had an obligation to provide for them as I would for any pet as it aged. On the other hand, they were a food source, and that’s why they were in our backyard. The conflict was a modern dilemma; my grandparents would never have been bothered by it.
The notice that had appeared in my e-mail in-box gave me pause. A Dressing Class would be held if there was enough interest. Euphemisms make it all so easy. Attending a dressing class sounded like something I did in junior high school, learning about the latest in fashion and makeup. A later announcement called it a Processing Workshop. I liked that, maybe canning tomatoes or jams and jellies. Of course it was really a slaughtering and butchering class, a BYOC event—bring your own chicken. As soon as the notice appeared, I sent a message saying I was interested. Then I started to think about it.
I had signed up out of a sense of obligation—to my chickens and to my profession. No, I hadn’t decided to offer up one of the girls; they were very young, and I was sure they had many good laying years to come. And I wasn’t planning on writing an exposé on how food travels to your plate. However, I did feel that because I earned my living from food, it might behoove me to find out what happens during the one part of the food process I rarely acknowledged.
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