Soon after getting the two new chickens, within a couple of days we had an egg. At least, if we were now caregivers for two semi-random chickens (well, we did pick out Comet), we would be getting eggs again.
Then it got cold, and snowy, and wet, and yucky. And chickens’ bodies are pretty clever. When they’re stressed, they don’t use up their body resources to make eggs. We weren’t (and still aren’t) convinced that they were both laying anyway and now our egg situation had declined from one every day or two to a big fat zero, zip, some would say l’oeuf, but that would be confusing.
Hey, Beaker…wanna lay any eggs? ‘Cus I don’t really want to lay any eggs. It’s too frikin’ cold to lay any eggs.
Look around. Do you see anyone else around here who wants to lay some eggs? Yeah. Me neither.
Screw the eggs. Let’s eat.
So, an egg drought. But times do change and one day sun shines again, snow melts, and, eventually, someone gets back to work. After an eggless week or so, I finally saw a new egg in the coop. I carefully reached in, pulled it out and…
…promptly dropped it on the grass.
Planning on cooking it up for the chickens–they mind eating dirt quite a bit less than I do–I cracked it the rest of the way into a bowl. Clean! Enough had remained in the shell to make a full scrambled egg. We’re back in action!
So, I guess the moral is: When life gives you scrambled eggs, um, make scrambled eggs. It’s not that deep of a moral.