The Fragility of a Single Egg

When you have five hens, and it is winter, and cloudy days stack up one on top of the other until they reach 10 in a row, eggs are a rarity.

On some days, I find no eggs. On others, I find one, never two or three or four.

Protecting that single egg seems so much harder than a clutch of eggs.

In the summertime, when eggs are plentiful, I place them in a coffee can that also serves as my vessel for carrying scratch grain, horse feed and sheep minerals.

But a single egg gets lost in a coffee can. It's easily overlooked and, if lucky, left on the counter in the barn or a fence post. If unlucky, it's knocked over or covered in grain.

A single egg fits neatly in a winter coat pocket, where it's forgotten until hit with firewood or a flake of hay.

When I find a single egg, I cup it in my palm and carry it to the barn where I look for a safe spot to place it while I finish evening chores.

I don't place it on the counter in the barn where a slightly bored and always hungry cat would bat it around, until it fell to the ground and became cat food.

Instead, I nestle it in a bird's nest that I found in the yard and kept because it was lined with pony hair, and I found it charming.

A chicken egg looks ridiculous in the tiny nest.

But I always notice it as I'm turning out the barn lights in the evening. I carry it into the house and place it in the egg carton.

I have six single eggs now--enough for an omelet.

The Hen vs. the Human

The Buckeye hen senses that is is spring and time for chicks. Every day she lays an egg in a nest in the hen house.

When I realize she's gone broody, I give her a few extra eggs and let her sit.

She takes her job seriously and turns the eggs daily so that they chick doesn't stick to one side. Once a day, she leaves the nest to eat and drink.

I, too, sense it's spring and time to incubate chicks. I collect eggs and place them in a carton in the workshop. I elevate one side of the carton and turn it every day.

Until one day, when I'm not paying attention, and I drop several of the eggs.

But I am persistent and go about collecting eggs.

When I've collected 30 eggs, I add water to the incubator and plug it in. The perfect conditions are 100 degrees and 58-60 percent humidity.

It reaches 99 degrees. I put the eggs in and turn the temperature a little higher.

I planned to go back and check it again. But I'm distracted by the garden, the horses, the sheep, the lambs, the cats. Hours later, I go to bed, tired from an evening spent outdoors.

In the morning, I remember the incubator.

The temperature reads 104 degrees.

I fried my eggs.

I've resumed collecting more eggs for the incubator. Meanwhile, the hen sits, waiting for the peeps that indicate she has chicks.

Never Underestimate a Determined Hen

In February, when temperatures stayed below zero and I pulled a bale of hay from the barn, I discovered the hen's first nest. Frozen eggs fell to the ground.

Undeterred, the hen moved to a new location--bales of hay closer to the ground.

But those bales disappeared as winter lingered and lambs were born.

The hen gave up on making nests in the hay bales and moved to a lamb pen.

The grass greened, and the lambs and ewes moved to pasture.

The hen sat and sat.

Most mornings, I felt sorry for her and offered her a bowl of grain and some water. She squawked at me, but accepted the food.

I calculated the days.

When it passed 21 days--the incubation period for eggs, I told her to give up.

She ignored me.

And, this morning, I discovered why. As I was feeding, I saw a chick peeking from her feathers, and then another.

This evening there are three chicks.

And I am leaving her alone.

Not all that falls is snow...

The sub-freezing weather hit this week, and I'm breaking ice from buckets and feeding hay, lots of hay.

Most mornings and evenings, I'm pulling another bale from the stack.

While reaching for the far bale in the corner, I'm counting bales. Is there enough hay to get through the week or do I need to move some from the hay storage barn?

Eggs fall on my shoulders.

For more than a week now, while I've been in the warm indoors, a hen has flown over the stall gate and laid eggs on the hay bale.

Lucky for me, it is 3 degrees and the eggs froze long ago.

Is the hen really planning to hatch chicks in January? Or, is she like the cats, the dogs, the humans and horses -- bored and looking for a little excitement in the cold, dark month of January?

She is not around, so I cannot ask her.

Instead, I gather the frozen eggs.

I will defrost them one at a time, and the dogs shall have a January treat.

A Conversation in the Hen House

At dusk, the hens retreat to the hen house and murmur as they settle in for the night.

I'm not sure what they're saying, but this fall, I suspect the conversation is going something like this.

Old Hen 1: Did you see what that young one did today? She went and laid an egg.

Old Hen 2: Drat! That means no eight-week holiday from egg laying for us.

Old Hen 1: Guess we'll have to produce a few eggs each day... It'll save us from the stew pot.

And a few weeks later...

Old Hen 1: Those young ones keep laying eggs.

Old Hen 2: Yeah, but they're itty-bitty eggs.

Old Hen 1: We could do better.

Old Hen 2: Yeah, we'll show them.

Yesterday, on the first day of December, this is what we collected from the hen house.

Will there be chicks?

In a few weeks, I'll know if it's the Year of the Hot Chicks or the Year of the Rotten Eggs.

My first attempt at incubation was a red hot fail. Hatching eggs requires a steady temperature of 100 degrees.

To keep Dewey Kitty from shredding the incubator, I put the incubator in the husband's unheated workshop, which was fine until the weather warmed and the incubator temperature soared to 108 degrees.

So I tried again, this time in the house. To keep Dewey Kitty from shredding the incubator, I put it in Caeli's crate. The Border collie is counting down to hatch day so that she can move from her temporary little crate to her big wire one.

Meanwhile, the hens have gone broody.

One hen did it the right way, building a nest, laying eggs and snuggling in.

Unfortunately, she got up to eat at the same time the spouse was collecting eggs.

When, a half hour later, during dinner, he mentioned how many eggs he collected, I dropped my fork, grabbed the eggs that were still sitting on the counter, and sprinted toward the hen house where I deposited all the eggs back into her nest. Did they cool too much? I don't know.

Meanwhile, everyone wants to be a mom in this nesting box. I have no idea how many eggs they're sitting on -- or if any hen is assuming the duties of turning the eggs.

When this happened a few years ago, three hens hatched out three chicks... and then no one wanted to be the mom. Finally, an old hen stepped up.

What'll happen this year? In a few weeks, we'll know.

Hey Chickens! Any Day Now!

Each day, I check the nests.

And each day, I find this.

We've been rationing eggs since late November when the hens took an early holiday and stopped laying.

I broke down this morning, and had eggs for breakfast.

We are now down to one dozen eggs.

They've got to start laying soon, I reason. The daylight hours are getting longer.

They're well-fed.

And they're happy roaming the barnyard.

And yet they don't lay eggs.

"Who wants to sit on eggs and hatch chicks in this weather?" the husband asks.

"But they never go on strike for this long," I say.

Then I consult my notes. Last year, they didn't start laying eggs again until January 30.

"I love oatmeal," I say.

Twelve more days.

The Optimist and the Realist in the Chicken House

This photo was taken  months ago, back when the hens were laying eggs.

They aren't doing that these days. The half-dozen pullets aren't quite old enough for egg production. The older hens' egg production usually tapers when the daylight hours dwindle.

This year they decided to call it quits in late October.

But I am the optimist. Each day I check the nesting boxes for an egg. Not finding one, I search other places in the chicken house and yard.

I have yet to find an egg. But I keep searching.

I am also a realist. When egg production waned in October, I began rationing eggs. I have not bought eggs in a store since we began raising chickens about 15 years ago. So, I'm determined to make those eggs in the refrigerator last until the hens begin laying again -- hopefully in January.

I've stopped giving away eggs. I've stopped eating eggs for breakfast.

Now, I find myself making cooking decisions based on egg requirements. So it's pancakes (1 egg) instead of waffles (2 eggs), and snickerdoodles (2 eggs) instead of brownies (4 eggs).

As for Christmas baking, I haven't decided how I'm going to approach that. This may be the year that I make caramel and fudge.

A Squawk, A Glare, A Surprise

Rather than clean the barn, I engaged in a chicken photo session.

The nesting hen was not amused.

The other hens and roosters were more than happy to oblige... if I gave them food.

As always, the rooster was willing to strut around the barnyard and show off his shimmering feathers.

But finally, I said enough, and turned back to the task for the morning: cleaning the barn.

I cleaned around the counter and feed area, then turned my attention to the hay and straw. I planned to rake up the loose hay and straw and move the remaining bales into the corner.

However, the chickens changed my plans.

Apparently a hen has decided to make a nest. I'll give her a week or so and see if she decides to sit on the eggs.

The Egg Mystery is Solved

The two dozen hens produced four eggs this week. That's usually not a cause for rejoicing. However, after five weeks of no eggs, I'm happy.

Never in the previous decade of winters have the chickens laid no eggs.

What happened?

Egg laying is regulated by light. While this winter has had its dreary moments, there have been worse winters.

The hens received less light because of a change of behavior.

We let our hens free-range. During the warmer months, when the grass is growing, they usually roam the pastures and come back to the hen house at night. After we built the sheep lean-to, they often found that a great place to hang out. There, they were out of the rain and safe from hawks.

However, this winter, they moved their "hanging out" place into the livestock barn, which, when closed up in the winter, is dark, dark, dark.

When this cold spell breaks, I'll change their behavior. I'll move half the flock to the other hen house and cut off access to the dark, dark barn.

For an unscientific explanation of what happened, check out Cheeps and Bleats.

The One Bright Spot

It was one of those days when the grass is brown, the sky, grey, and the weather, rainy.

As I walked the dogs, I watched them roll so that their top sides matched their muddy undersides. Even the usually clean Mickey wore a smudge on the white stripe of her forehead.

The horses got into the act, repeatedly rolling and grinding sand, mud and water into their thick winter coats.

It's not supposed to be 60 degrees in January.

At the barn, I walked through mud as I did the evening chores.

That's when I found the one bright spot: a brown, mud-streaked egg in the chicken yard.

It was cracked, so it becomes a dog egg. The three Border collies are playing Paper, Paper, Paper to determine who gets it. But it was an egg, the first egg in over a month. Maybe I'll soon be eating eggs again.

The Egg Mystery Continues

While others were nestled in their homes, watching television, reading, sleeping, I was moving chickens from one hen house to the other.

For the past several months, I've had a merged flock of 19 hens and three roosters. Last night, I moved seven hens and one rooster to the new house.

Late this morning, I checked both houses for eggs. None.

Returning to the house, I ate chicken noodle soup and thought how much more I prefer eggs to chicken.

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Check out my new blog Cheeps and Bleats!

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

For years, we've kept two hen houses. One for the young hens and one for the old ones.

This provides some genetic diversity at breeding time -- and it gives us a little insurance on one flock surviving a predator attack.

However, in an effort to save time -- and feed, I combined the flocks in late fall and put them all -- 19 hens and three roosters -- in one hen house. They still have room to roam. I figured they'd be fine.

Maybe a break-up will inspire some egg laying.

So, this week, I'm opening up the young hen house and then moving some hens to it. (So it may be a few days before I write another egg mystery report... unless of course, I find an egg!)