So Friday I knew that Landlady was coming up for the weekend. Just to be nice, and since when I get a surplus of eggs there’s really almost nothing I can do with them except make the mother of all omelets, I put a dozen eggs from the Fortress of Attitude on her kitchen counter.
By so doing, I unknowingly sentenced half a dozen lazy hippie chickens to death. One of the first things she asked, when I saw her yesterday morning, was “Did any of those eggs come from my hens?” And I had to be honest: “Not one.”
So this morning she told me it was time to send the last surviving Brahmas to Chicken Heaven, where angels will feed them forever even though they’re completely useless.
Don’t know when I’ll get around to it, there’s no special rush and since it’s actually been almost eighteen months since I slaughtered a chicken I’ll have to work myself up to it. But they’re toast. And so is Selma, that Rhode Island Red in the center of the first picture, just because she’s a bitch and doesn’t play well with others. I may or may not move Agnes back to the Fortress, but to be truthful they’re both four years old and probably all laid out. Certainly neither of the two old RIRs have laid an egg since they finished moulting, and this ain’t a rest home for chickens.
It’s the last day of the month, the day before official Battery Day, but today it’s sunny and warm except for the extreme wind and tomorrow is supposed to be cold and snowy with extreme wind. So I decided to do my running around today. That way I can cocoon in front of the fire with a book and not feel the least bit guilty about it.
First, since we did a dump run yesterday and I still had the trailer hitched up, I did some pallet collections. D&L wanted me to carry off four, and I’d left two at Former Neighbor J&H’s place. These are for next winter, most likely.
Having done that, it was time for batteries…
While I was in Ian’s power house topping off his batteries…
…I happened to look off to the right, toward the entrance. I saw some smudges on the wall…
I looked closer, and there was something I’d honestly forgotten was there…
The crazy summer of 2009. Claire, Ian and I finished the powerhouse walls. Ian and I roofed it with improvised rafters made from the many 2X12s left over from the Secret Lair’s foundation. Then we coated the walls inside and out with waterproofing cement made for swimming pools, and scratched our initials on the wall. Then we dug footers, poured the floor, and built his dome. That same summer he put up the front block wall. It was a few years before the whole thing got buried, but I’ll always remember that insane summer we got so much work done. It didn’t really seem like good times at the time. 🙂
Old hens make the best broth.
There’s a Hillary joke somewhere in the first comment.
ew. I’d need a new stewpot.
I am looking forward to many posts in TUAK’s future, all somehow centered around chicken “dispatchery” and cookery. Perhaps first you could rename them after Presidential candidates. Yes, I know that the candidates are mostly male, whilst the birds are mostly female, but that’s a small detail.
Hm. None of the six doomed Brahmas have names. Breaking from Landlady’s tradition of always using the names of Simpsons characters, I’m thinking maybe Hillary, Nancy, Barbara, Shannon,…
Joel, if you can make, borrow or buy a killing cone the chicken farewells will be much quicker and less messy. You have many places where one could be mounted. Collect the blood in a bucket and pour it around the bottom of Ian’s fruit trees. Or in your garden. Just mix it in the soil. Make some lovely desserts with all those eggs. Make an egg bread, wonderful for thick sliced French toast.
One of my tricks for too many eggs is to scramble them then freeze them in an ice tray then vacuum seal 3 or 4 each to a bag and toss them in the deep freeze.
It’s so much easier to make scrambled eggs or an omelet, plus it lets me store fresh eggs longer.
Yup, Zelda. After the Cornish Cross debacle of 2014, when they spazzed out so bad post-beheading that every one broke its wings, I decided a cone was the way to go.
Er…that is, except that the Cornish were followed by the Evil Araucana Cock Birds, which I shot in the heads from a respectful distance because damn they were evil.
But these ladies get a ride in my new traffic-cone-derived killing cone.
When we had birds, my killing cone was one of those vet post surgery neck cone/collars made for small dogs or cats. It was the perfect size, contained the death throes and was easy to hose out when I was done with the dirty deed. I don’t envy you the task, but it’ll be nice to know you have access to the fresh meat in your diet for the remainder of the winter.
The candidates may have the chromosomes that claim they are male, Ben. But most of them act like they are not. After all, Jeb! is nothing more than Hillary without any balls.