It was a sunny Saturday in March when we strolled over to our neighbor's house for what would become the dawn of an adventure.
Such a stroll down to David and Elissa's is a common occurrence--even more so now that I am home and supposed to be studying--but today was different. Over dinner the night before, we had somewhat randomly decided that we were going to raise chickens. Granted, David grew up on a farm and Jake's grandmother is a chicken-pro, but Elissa and I are pretty helpless when it comes to birds. Nonetheless the idea of farm fresh eggs was too good to pass up. As we piled into David's pick up and drove down to the farm store, we were giggly with the anticipation of becoming chicken-parents. We had no coop, no feed, no bedding, and no prior chicken knowledge, but the thought of baby chicks in our basement made us wild with anticipation.
David and Elissa picked out eight baby chicks. We picked out six. Two Red Star chicks (you'd never know they were supposed to be red when they were chicks), two Barred Rocks (black and white speckled little guys), and two Buff Orpingtons (a beautiful, golden-yellow). Against all advice and our better judgment we named them: Monica and Chandler were the red ones, Phoebe and Joey were the barred rocks, and the Orpingtons were Rachel and Ross--in honor of our recent, productive venture watching all 10 seasons of Friends in a span of six months. We fell in love. We set up a box in the basement under a red heat lamp and went down every so often to check on our lil' chicks. If we were quiet enough upstairs, we could hear them cheep and then we'd giggle, just imagining the cuteness of little Chandler.
As the chicks began to grow, Jake and David set to work building the coops. Thankfully, David is a brilliant engineer and binge-researcher, so we happily did what he told us to do. While the coops slowly began to take shape, the baby chicks entered their pullet stage and were suddenly not so cute. We came to the conclusion that teenagers of any species are hard pressed not to be awkward (sorry teenagers, I speak from experience). Monica and Chandler started to sprout random brownish feathers in between their fluffy yellow baby ones, Rachel and Ross were tall and lanky, and as would fit their namesakes, incredibly moody. We wondered if Phoebe and Joey were ever going to grow. Early in April, when I was at the church women's retreat, Jake worked tirelessly to build our babies their home. As is typical with Jake's projects, he worked extravagantly, quickly, learned as he went, and three days later I came home to the surprise of a beautiful barn-red coop with white trim, a vented slot for extra air, shingles, and nesting boxes. While it was by no means ready for "Fine Woodworking", for a couple of musicians who can count their experiences wielding power tools on two fingers, it was a masterpiece...and it took my breath away.
Monica, Chandler, Joey, Phoebe, Rachel and Ross moved in. Their first night in the coop I had a hard time falling asleep wondering if the newspaper and plywood were enough to keep them from the freezing Spring air. Jake assured me they would be just fine--annoyed that I didn't trust his handiwork and would ever consider moving them back into their basement box--but he was right, they survived. Fast forward to the beginning of July and Elissa and David's chickens laid eggs first. Jealous and frustrated, we checked the nesting boxes everyday until finally, on July 12th, we found our first egg! After we had collected a number of eggs, we harvested swiss chard from the garden and enjoyed our first home grown breakfast.
I'd like to report that the difference in farm fresh eggs is unimaginable and we soared off to tastebud heaven with our first bite, but to be honest, I don't know that it tasted all that different from the cage-free eggs the milkman delivered every week. They sure weren't cheaper; Jake was eager to point out that with the cost of coop, our first breakfast of 5 golden eggs came out to $120 an egg. We laughed and trusted our investment would prove worthwhile in a few months, and with bird flu on the rise, it didn't seem like too lofty a goal. As we continued to enjoy our breakfast we realized that the taste became sweeter. It wasn't Monica and Chandler's eggs, the rich swiss chard, or even the ricotta I added as a garnish. It was the taste of something long-lasting, a memory shared. It was the look in Jake's eyes and slant of his smile that said, "We did this."
