egg hunt

This is not a belated Easter post or anything.... we have a hen problem, or two. Mainly they just won't stay in the run and even though my patient and by now surely bored-of-our-hen-issues Man just made a net covering all over the place, they are still by and large out. I like truly free ranging hens, truly I do. In theory. I just don't like their shit. Literally. Especially when it's on your doorstep or kitchen window sill. I am also exasperated that 2 out of 3 of the new chicks are cocks. Bleh. If only one could select by looking at eggs whether or not they were female, then we could simply toss the male eggs (I mean eat). I'd have no problem with this. I know, there are people beaten to death over such ideas of gender selection. But trust me, if you have hens you'll know that the girly sort are best. One cock per household is enough (I am seriously not going anywhere else with that, I am on a schedule.... else I'd more bawdy.... or something).



Anyway. Not only are they out more than ever they have stopped laying one by one in their lovely nesting box and are laying... some other places. We have such a huge area to search it is only possible to stumble across a cache of eggs and think yourself lucky. Which is what Felix did the other day (while out early in PJ's playing with a bamboo-cane in the drive way). Esmé then jumped in saying she too had found it (lie).



Even though they look very cooperative here don't be fooled or foxed my these sweet images. If only you could hear the bickering over how many eggs each had 'rescued' you would think them less cute. Then if you could see one small girl scream and run off and kick the garage and stamp around a bit because she was not the person who picked up the very last egg, you might wonder if I had some maniac children. That would be true. But the nice thing about children (thank the stars) is that their moods can change quicker than our lovely temperate weather. And soon she was struggling over solo hold of the basket and conquering her more kind and gentle brother. and smiling again, of course. Queen of the world with a basket of eggs.



It's still kind of cute that they magically were wearing matching PJ tops. A marvel, I could not have planned since mostly Esmé will wear only the opposite of what I ask (I must have suggested short sleeved PJ's the night previously.)



No, I did not forget that fabulously informative cleaning post I promised either, it will be up in just a jiffy, or as soon as my laptop uploads from my camera. I have been so instagram mad of late (so quick! so easy!) and had so little time to sit here (what is with the pregnancy-nesting-painting walls--cleaning thing already?) time has blown on by.



But anyway, we have eggs. For once. And still lots of chicken shit every where. But still nice yolky rich eggs. I have to break each one open in a small pot or glass and sniff and look at the firmness of white before deciding if it's safe to eat (in case you were wondering). I estimate only two weeks old tops for the very worst egg. Most shop eggs are estimated at least 6 weeks old anyway. Yuck. These have all been very good. So far. No one is sick anyway, which means good.