If you don’t collect eggs every SINGLE day in the winter, this is what happens: The yolk inside freezes almost as quickly as my virus-loaded computer freezes. The only difference is that the pigs at least get a nice meal out of the egg-cicle.
Collecting eggs has always been a kind of downfall for me. Even as a little girl, when I actually remembered to do it, I could never quite manage to go through the full motions of bringing an egg basket out to the coop. Nope. . . it was just too much effort to walk back to the house and grab one. For me, it fell into the same unbearable category as flossing my teeth. . . not ABSOLUTELY necessary right? Instead, I’d collect the eggs in my own special way, waddling back from the coop to the house in incremental steps with a stretched out T-shirt full of dirty eggs. My mother would take one frustrated look at me and say, “Laura, change your shirt right NOW or I’m going to have to bleach it AGAIN.”
My mother kept me as clean as could be. For a little girl who spent most of her time in the chicken coop, you would have no idea from seeing me in school that I spent 75% of my waking hours hanging out in bird feces. She dressed me in the most fashionable clothes any normal seven-year-old girl would have coveted, from the floweriest of nineties skirts, to the coolest of Sketchers shoes. Unfortunately, I could’ve cared less. The second I got home from school, I’d strip off my stylish, beautiful clothes and toss on some smelly pair of sneakers and one of my brothers stained T-shirts to go out to the coop and play with my hen, “Buffy” and my rooster, “Little One.” (Yes, I still remember their names.)
These days, not much has changed. Though my clothing style isn’t quite as nice as it used to be, (unless you think Carhartt is equivalent to American Eagle), I STILL can’t manage the full task of collecting eggs with an actual egg basket. The only difference now is they get stuffed in my coat pockets instead of my shirt. I forget about them long enough to hear my cell-phone ring and reach into my pocket to pull out a yolk-covered cell, with just enough globs of goo to render it useless for making calls.
Friends, family, bosses, THIS is the reason I go through phones like an infant goes through diapers. Someday, I might bring myself to use proper egg collecting methods, but until I’m EGGED on to do so, keep your numbers handy!
Happy Chickening everyone! 🙂