The hens huddled together in the roosting box as I scraped their dropping and the old hay from the bottom of the coop. The snow was still falling, wet and heavy so I knew they’d be spending most if not the whole day inside.
It was when half my body was leaning into the coop as I pushed the metal dustpan to scoop up the poop that I saw the egg. It was in the second roosting box, dirty and fresh, not warm but not frozen either.
The hens have begun to lay again.
I’d guess it’s from either Kitty or Anne, the young hens. I could see how the color has come back to their combs and wattles. They are no longer pink the color they turn when molting, but deep red a sign they are ready to lay again.
How I missed the fresh eggs. How spoiled I am.
The eggs from the grocery are fine for cooking, for scrambling, or frying. But hard-boiled, they are rubbery and dull.
This morning I cooked the first egg of the season for 13 minutes. It was still soft when I cut it in half, the bright yellowish/orange yoke spilling onto the knife. I place half on my plate and the other half on Jon’s, with just a touch of salt.
The egg white was creamy as custard, the yoke sticky and almost sweet.
How fortunate to be able to begin the winter with fresh eggs from our hens. It brings hints of spring to the darkness.