eggs

chasingchickens
The good ole days.

When I was a little kid, I learned how to spell “egg” by watching Sesame Street. E-G-G. I remember being so surprised there were two “g”s!

Deviled eggs took awhile to grow on me, but every now and then I have a craving. They are one of just four dishes* where I will tolerate a little bit of mustard.

I loathe mustard.

The second dish in which I will tolerate mustard is potato salad.

When I was in high school I worked for Abby’s Pizza Parlor. There are lots of good (and a couple bad) memories associated with Abby’s Pizza parlor, but one in particular was how much my dad loved the potato salad at the salad bar. I used to make that potato salad by the tub full. (Note: that requires A GOOD DEAL OF EGGS.) One year my dad was hosting some sort of BBQ at the Fisher Implement store he managed and he paid me good money to make him an entire tub of that same potato salad. I loved knowing that he was proud of me and liked my cooking (although that kind of food prep isn’t so much cooking as a whole lotta peeling and chopping) and also that he trusted me to feed people. His people. And especially something as particular as potato salad. I’d wager potato salad is one of the most frequent offenders when it comes to food poisoning after a picnic.

But the other thing that comes to mind is chickens.

Apparently, in this case the eggs came before the chickens.

I’ve been thinking a good deal about chickens lately (possibly because I’ve taken a gander at baby chicks not one, but two weekends in a row now). How excited I was when I first got my chickens. How fun it was to raise baby chicks. How much I loved–once they were old enough to move into their tin-roofed coop–to gather eggs each morning and to let the chickens out to wander the yard every evening.

How much I’ve missed that since we got Ginger and she killed most of my chickens.

For a bit I’ve been jealous. Watching out the back window as Shane’s pigeons play about the yard–pecking at the insects, seeming to have free reign. Unbothered by Ginger.

But recently Shane called me to the window to look outside. And there was my last remaining chicken–one of the Rhode Island Reds–giving herself a dust bath in my flower garden. Completely unbothered by Ginger. I couldn’t believe it. She’s had free reign of the yard ever since. Although I did catch Ginger chasing her across the back 40 once. She (the chicken, not Ginger) sought refuge behind the old turquoise Little Tykes kiddie pool propped up against the fence.

She (again, the chicken) also started laying eggs again. Which is pretty amazing considering how old she is (we’ve had Ginger over 4 years). We were just getting used to them enough to miss them now her nest is empty again. We figure she’s gotten comfortable enough to just lay them willy nilly (as opposed to henny penny) out in the yard.

Ah well. Eggless or no, at least she’s free from the boarded up sunless confines of her coop.

And that makes me happy.

[Day 105 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]

Post edit, for what it’s worth, dishes three and four (in which I will tolerate mustard) are my Christmas breakfast frittata and meatloaf. Both which also, coincidentally, contain EGGS.