Dashing through the grocery story in paint-splattered sweatpants, no makeup and a hairstyle Einstein made famous, I’d been deployed on an urgent mission to capture some breakfast rations and return home without scaring anyone.
I had a dozen eggs ready to surrender when an itsy-bitsy woman pushing a cart full of carrots commanded me to put them back. “You’re guilty of cruelty to chickens,” she said, wagging a bony finger at my nose. Then she marched off, leaving me in a cloud of newfound shame.
Until that moment, I wasn’t giving eggs—or their mothers—much thought. You just find the cheap ones, check for cracks and claim your carton. An egg’s an egg . . . or at least it used to be.
Back in high school, I worked at a roadside farmstand owned by Attila the Hun’s sister. When customers were scarce and the tomatoes had been rearranged six times, she’d put me in charge of egg hygiene. I was raking in $1.67 an hour, so Ms. Hun wanted her money’s worth. That meant sorting through 600 eggs—armed only with sandpaper—to scrape off the brown spots left by sloppy layers. (Try not to think too much about that.)
Today’s omelet lover has a lot more than speckled shells to brood over. Eggs are no longer a simple matter of brown or white, medium or large. Socially conscious eaters must research the egg layer’s lodging, diet, emotional welfare and political views. Was your breakfast’s biological mother a free-roaming vegetarian or a sweat coop prisoner denied her daily dustbath and right to flap?
Once again, strangers are determined to raise my consciousness against my will. I’ve already given up steak, veal, burgers and eating anything “with a face” in front of my vegan daughter, who probably paid Carrot Lady to ambush me at the market. Now, I’m forced to devote any brain cells that aren’t busy storing computer passwords to chicken welfare.
Rather than worry, my friend Kim decided to raise her own hens so she could pamper them properly. Believe me, any animal in Kim’s care thinks it died and went to Club Med. Her flock dines on a 24-hour organic buffet with unlimited fresh grubs (that’s prime rib to poultry). No cages—just spacious digs with heat, air and premium cable.
You’d think the little peckers would show some gratitude by leaving an egg or two in their nests, but instead, they become fighter pilots. That’s one of the perils of raising free-range birds. Some chickens prefer to release their cargo from a high perch under the porch rafters about 9 feet up, so the eggs arrive pre-scrambled.
Another surprise: Chickens aren’t always in a good mood, no matter how you treat them. They may scream, growl or resort to cannibalism. And that’s before they hit menopause and get really testy.
But Kim won’t give up, even though every usable egg is running her about $67, not including bandages for the peck wounds covering both her arms. That’s how those feathered tyrants thank her.
If those were my chickens, they’d be at KFC before you could say “extra crispy.” Maybe a nice side of coleslaw would improve their manners.
They make it with carrots, you know.
Jan A. Igoe is a writer and illustrator from Horry County who still suffers occasional nightmares about giant chickens chasing her with belt sanders. Send your comments to HumorMe@SCLiving.coop (as in co-op, not chicken houses).