Birds of a Feather Molt Together

So it's been awhile since my last post about Esther.

The good news is that she seems perfectly fine.

However, she hasn't laid a single egg since that, um... unpleasant examination. She's also not so eager to jump into my lap as she used to be.

Esther, in motion, seems happy and healthy as a lark...

though she does keep a safe distance from me these days,

especially when I'm donning rubber gloves.

I would feel the same way, so I won't hold it against her.

The fact that she had suddenly and completely stopped laying did leave me a little worried, though. I mean, not worried enough to do a repeat procedure... but I was definitely concerned.

Until this happened.

My children woke up one morning to find feathers scattered all over the yard. Now, don't think the worst here. None of our girls were harmed. They were... molting!

After pulling on their boots, my kids skipped through the garden, squealing with delight, collecting masses of downy feathers in bowls and baskets and bags. They were even more excited about collecting feathers than eggs. The chickens watched from a safe distance with a healthy mix of curiosity and contempt in their eyes.

"What IS going on here?" wondered Lillian.

The truth is, I was as perplexed as she was, until, serendipitiously, my newest issue of Urban Farm Magazine showed up on my dining room table that very same day. And one of its features was entitled "Molting Matters."

In basic terms, the article explained how chickens molt annually, shedding their old layer of feathers, much like other animals. The process usually begins in early fall, though the author mentions that it can begin in the end of summer, as well. During the molting process, the chickens' bodies require extra proteins to develop new feathers... the same types of proteins they use to develop eggs. So, as chickens molt, they often stop laying.

Apparently, I can expect a lot more feather shed at Pocket Square Farm over the coming months. That's fine by Mason, however, who never misses an artistic opportunity! He used some of his collected feathers, construction paper, scissors, and white glue to make a replica of his favorite feathered friend.

Our girls didn't know what to think as the newest member of their "flock" scampered around the yard!

Good thing curiosity never killed the chicken! We may be down a few eggs in coming months, but on the flip side, I won't have to buy packaged feathers at the craft store EVER AGAIN!

Today I Violated My Chicken...

...and I'm much more distraught about it than she is.

When I woke up this morning, it wasn't something I planned to do.

What with loads of laundry and dishes piling up, my desperate attempt to go through our entire house and garage to prepare for a yard sale this weekend, and little ones running circles around me, I didn't really have time in my busy schedule for this to happen.

Because, you know, my daily to-do list doesn't usually look like this:

1. Breakfast

2. Dishes

3. Laundry

4. Lunch

5. Stick my finger up a chicken's butt while trying not to vomit

But then, being a mom and an urban farmer often results in doing things that you'd really rather not.

The unrelishing conundrum began when I realized that Esther, our Araucana, hadn't laid an egg in three days. When I checked the nesting box this morning, it became four days in a row with no blue eggs. You see, she has been laying almost every day for months, so this was a little unusual. I searched the yard looking for a secret place where, perhaps, she had been hiding them. After all, one of our Buffs prefers to lay beneath my white rose bush on occasion.

When I didn't discover a secret stash, I did what any urban farm girl would do: I hit the computer. Internet searches turned up lots of advice on this apparently common poultry problem. I read about chickens becoming egg-bound which can, if untreated, be fatal. I began observing Esther's behavior with overzealous scrutiny. She wasn't really demonstrating any of the symptoms, which include straining to lay an egg, standing or sitting with her bum pointed down toward the ground, or panting.

That is to say, she wasn't panting until I chased her around the yard at full speed, like a complete idiot, for more than 30 minutes. Let's just call that my cardio for the day. She finally tired; I won! Good to know that at 30-something I'm apparently in better shape than my 1-year-old hen. So I had caught her, and I was holding her beneath my arm like a rugby ball. Now what?

Most web posts I reviewed recommended putting your afflicted hen in a warm bath to relax the muscles around the vent (rear), and then lubricating her "nether-regions" with olive oil to help dislodge any egg that might be stuck... up there. Avian veterinary sites also recommended using your finger to feel around for any eggs. With a rubber glove on, of course. But still. Yuuuuuck.

If Esther the Easter Egger was not such a beloved pet to my son, I may have just waited another day or so to see what developed. However, I read online that this could quickly lead to the untimely death of the bird, which is the last thing I want to have on my conscience. I could live with having felt up the hen; allowing her to possibly become ill and die without at least a thorough examination I couldn't fathom.

So I did what any dedicated urban farm girl would do: I followed the internet directions.

Warm bath. Latex glove. Olive oil. I'm going to stop right there to keep you (and me) from reliving the moment. For I think that, often, city-dwellers like myself romanticize down-on-the farm rural living. Let me assure you there was nothing romantic about this all-too-intimate encounter.

Long story short, Esther seemed to enjoy her warm bath. She also didn't seem to mind being, um, examined at length. I wasn't able to feel any egg that was stuck (whole or otherwise). If she was having trouble laying, sites claimed, often a warm bath and the olive oil lube job would do the trick. I released her into the backyard, where she went about her chicken business as usual, preening and resting, no worse for wear.

I can't say the same for myself.

Let's just say that, when the ordeal was over, I used at least a half a can of Comet in the bathroom tub. And the floor. And maybe my arms and hands. And under my fingernails. And I threw the scrub brushes away.

I'm hopeful our hen will be fine, but I don't think I'll ever be the same.

Let's just call this my true initiation into the life of a farm girl. I declare, I have at last earned my self-selected nom de plume!

Bathing Beauties

Why did the chicken(s) cross the road?

To get to the day spa... duh!

Okay, well, it may not be a day spa EXACTLY, but our gals sure do love to pamper themselves in [what else?] a pile of dirt in the corner of one of my raised beds. Aside from devouring juicy bugs, dust bathing is their favorite pastime.

What? You didn't know that chickens take baths? Of course they do! Just not in the water. In fact, water and dampness is really not good for your hens. They always need their henhouse and bedding to be clean and dry, thus avoiding respiratory problems.

So how do our feathered friends clean up? They roll in the dirt. They fluff out their feathers. They puff and preen as dust particles sift deep into their plumage, all the way to their skin. They roll on their backs, spread their wings, and even stick their feet up into the air. Truly, chicken dust bathing is quite a spectacle if you've never witnessed it. See for yourself!

Ahhh! Nothing like dirt to make you feel your freshest.

The only things these So Cal chicks are missing are cucumber slices over their eyes!

Urban Homestead Hints

I've decided to add a new "genre" to my blog: urban homestead hints. This is where I'll post little nuggets of trivial information [which may or may not be helpful to the average gardener].

They may be wise. They may be wacky. They may even be worthless. Here we go!

Homestead Hint #1: Proper Egg-Collecting Attire

When collecting farm-fresh eggs, no matter the time of day, it's often advisable to wear specially selected clothing. Feel free to forego the muck boots.

In fact, on Easter Sunday I found myself giggling at the paradox of me, in my knee-skimming dress and gold Franco Sarto platform heels, tip-toeing through the [chicken poop-smattered] yard to gather eggs.

Do other urban farm girls struggle with this issue?

Can farm work and fashion coexist? Hmm......

On the other hand, Mason would advise you that it's best to hit the dress-up basket prior to venturing out to the chicken coop. After all, a felt moustache and vintage cowboy hat definitely lend credibility--and flair--to the urban homesteading scene!

So next time you go to gather eggs (or come to visit mine)... don a little something special! The chickens--and you--will be happy you did!

Fried Egg Throwdown

Okay, I may not be Bobby Flay in the kitchen, but since our gals have been laying for awhile, it's time for our first official Pocket Square Farm THROWDOWN!

"How exactly are free-range, farm-fresh eggs different than those you buy in the store?" you may wonder.

Well, ponder no more, because today's blog will answer just that.

First, on the top, the defending champion of scrambles of quiches of the modern day kitchen: store bought eggs. We're not talking farmer's market, here. Think bigger: Ralph's, Von's, or Albertson's, for example. These bad boys are large and in charge. In fact, these are the cheapest extra large white eggs I could find.

Next, down below, we have the underdog(s): the proud bounty of Lillian, Penelope, Serafina, and Esther--the lovely ladies of Pocket Square Farm. They may squawk. They definitely poop A LOT. But darn, do they lay pretty little eggs... if I do say so myself!

Let the THROWDOWN begin!

First, Mason cracks open the store-bought eggs.

Mason is an experienced egg-cracker with a gentle hand, but the store-bought variety still ran all over the pan. They are thin, watery, and light yellow in color. The yolks lay relatively flat in the bottom of the pan--sad, flimsy, lifeless.

Camille took her crack at the farm-fresh eggs. Despite being a novice chef, her three-year-old fingers were able to break open the thick shells and drop the PSF eggs into the frying pan... without any yolks tearing or running.

The yolks are darkly colored, closer to orange than yellow. They seem to stand at attention in the dish, while the whites maintain a firm oval shape. The consistency of the raw eggs is incredibly thick.

A little salt and pepper, and it's time to turn on the heat!

Here are the store-bought extra large white eggs...

... compared to our PSF "homegrown" eggs.

I realize it may be a bit unethical to serve as farmer, cook, and judge in this so-called competition. Regardless, after taste testing both sunny-side-up servings, I officially declare the winners to be...

...Pocket Square Farm Eggs, of course!

Like those other guys ever stood a chance.

Thick enough to cut with a knife, and rich and creamy like custard, these eggs are really something else. We can't wait to try them in pancake batter and baked goods!

With the eggs in our happy tummies and the shells in the compost bin, I declare this throwdown a triumph for urban chicken-rearers everywhere!

Totally Egg-static!

When we first brought home our chicks in the beginning of December, we promised our kids they would have fresh eggs by Easter.

But as the weeks passed, and still no eggs, we began to get nervous. "How many days until Easter?" they inquired repeatedly. We could see the little wheels turning in their minds. Mason and Camille may have been eagerly anticipating a visit from a large white rabbit carrying chocolates, but they were even more excited about the prospect of our first farm-fresh egg.

What would I do if our chickens didn't deliver? I contemplated buying brown eggs at the market and slipping them into the empty nesting boxes on Easter morning. After all, parents have gone to further lengths to keep their children's innocent little hearts from being broken!

Fortunately, fate (or chicken puberty, as you may call it) stepped in just in the nick of time. A few days before Easter, as I was feeding our gals, I peeked into the nesting box... just in case.

Lo and behold, I spied our first egg. It rested, tiny and brown, right in the middle of one of our two nesting boxes. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. After a few seconds of shocked speechlessness, I screamed. Loudly.

My family came running, probably expecting the worst from the volume of my high-pitched wailing. "What's wrong? What is it?" they begged.

After lifting the children up to peer at our "delivery," we snapped a few pictures, lifted it out gently, and passed it around. The kids took turns holding it, ever so carefully, looks of awe and wonder on their faces. I was so glad I hadn't resorted to "faking" it!

Mason took a turn holding the egg first...

...followed by his sister, of course.

The brown egg looks large in their hands, but was actually quite small in comparison to these white, store-bought eggs.

After five months of chicken-rearing, coop building, and daily hen care, I'm reminded of the credit card commercials:

Baby chicks $20

Chick supplies $50

Grit and mash $100

Coop materials $400

Our first egg: PRICELESS!

The Coop that Ross Built

This is the coop that Ross built.

These are the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

This is the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

Here are the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

Next the project was covered with ply
Making it look like a barn to the eye,
Along with the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

Here's the project, all painted and done
(And moving it to the corner was seriously not fun)
After the project was covered with ply
Making it look like a barn to the eye,
Along with the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.


Open the doors and take a look;
Our ladies in waiting enjoy quite a nook
Inside the project, all painted and done
(And moving it to the corner was seriously not fun)
After the project was covered with ply
Making it look like a barn to the eye,
Along with the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.


This is the bar where the ladies now roost
(We had to train them by giving a boost)!
Open the doors and take a look;
Our ladies in waiting enjoy quite a nook
Inside the project, all painted and done
(And moving it to the corner was seriously not fun)
After the project was covered with ply
Making it look like a barn to the eye,
Along with the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

Here are the nesting boxes where our gals will lay--
They'd better or they may become dinner one day--
Beside the bar where the ladies now roost
(We had to train them by giving a boost)!
Open the doors and take a look;
Our ladies in waiting enjoy quite a nook
Inside the project, all painted and done
(And moving it to the corner was seriously not fun)
After the project was covered with ply
Making it look like a barn to the eye,
Along with the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

Our Chicken McMansion is done and it's dandy
Thanks to my husband who's totally handy;
He hinged the nesting boxes where our gals will lay--
They'd better or they may become dinner one day--
Beside the bar where the ladies now roost
(We had to train them by giving a boost)!
Open the doors and take a look;
Our ladies in waiting enjoy quite a nook
Inside the project, all painted and done
(And moving it to the corner was seriously not fun)
After the project was covered with ply
Making it look like a barn to the eye,
Along with the beginnings of the very first door
And a few flaps of wood attached to the floor,
Screwed to the frame, set in place by one man
According to his graph papers and hand-drawn plan,
Built from the beams that sat outside
And were soaked by the rains as the clouds opened wide,
For the coop that Ross built.

(Thanks, Honey!)

First Taste of Freedom

Our girls are getting big quickly--and conversely, their cardboard condo seems to be getting smaller! While there's still plenty of room for our four pullets to peck around, I have to say it's becoming a little smooshy in there.

I think I probably know how they feel. It's like when all four members of my family are trying to brush teeth in our one, pint-sized bathroom--simultaneously. And there is only one mirror.

Penelope, Serafina, Lillian, and Esther are gaining not just in size, but in attitude. And why wouldn't they? After all, for all poultry intents and purposes they're practically teenagers!

My husband has been very dedicated to building their hen house, but between Christmas, a trip to Mariposa, the rain, and the flu--well-- it's definitely still a work in progress.

So we finally had a beautiful, sunny day. I decided the girls were due for their first taste of freedom. I carried them from their condo, two at a time, to our backyard, where Mason was dedicatedly keeping an eye out for our farm cats.

Penelope and Serafina had their outdoor time first. Aren't they so much larger than before? Their feathers have really come in; they hardly have any fuzz left at all.

As they hudled together and took tentative steps through the damp grass, they looked like real chickens! Not that they weren't real before. They just look a little more wild out in the open, don't you think?

The funny thing was that they didn't like the feel of the grass on the bottoms of their feet. They kept lifting their legs to examine the ground beneath them.

"Where am I?" Serafina Sweets seemed to ask me.

Next it was Esther's turn. She stayed close by my side, cocking her head this way and that in worried confusion.

Lillian, now the largest and heaviest of the four, at first seemed a little more confident than the others. She scratched a bit at the earth, and even clipped off the top of one blade of grass with her beak before she suddenly had a change of heart...

...and ran up one arm to perch on my shoulder!

You know what this means?
My chickens are chicken!

I guess I'll have to schedule some more supervised backyard playtime for these gals before they make that big leap from dining room digs to the great outdoors.

Chickens Shouldn't Use Cell Phones

So I think I may have mentioned that Pocket Square Farm's four chickens are living in a cardboard, two-bedroom condo... in our dining room.

Yes, this repulses me a little.

You see, we originally planned to keep them in the garage. But then we brought them home. They were so cute! So small! We simply couldn't banish them to the concrete floor and chaotic clutter of our detached, single-car garage--where they might freeze overnight and we would never see them.

Thus, the livestock in the living area.

Generally speaking, the pullets are not much of a nuisance. Their home fits squarely into one corner of the room. Chicks peep but are relatively quiet. They even sleep at night (much better than my own children, I might add). And as long as I change their bedding every other day, there is virtually no odor. I think it's just the thought of having live chickens in the dining area that makes me a little queasy. Especially at dinner time. When we're eating chicken soup. Or chicken stir fry. Or, on occasion, chicken nuggets.

It doesn't seem to bother anyone else that we may be consuming some distant cousins of our new poultry pets... but I can tell you that with the addition of our four new family members I have also added more vegetarian (or at least chicken-less) dishes into my family's weekly menu.

But there I go on another birdwalk. Because I really wanted to tell you about the cell phone.

Seeing as how our chicken condo is an open cardboard box in our family's living area, I sat my children down on the couch right away when we brought the pullets home and gave them their first (of many) chicken lectures. And I am a very good lecturer. Just ask my husband.

"You have to be very, very careful [kids] that you don't accidentally drop [throw, hurtle, toss] any toys into the chickens' home. They could pick it up, thinking it's food, and choke on it. And if a chicken is choking it could very well die. We don't want any of our baby chickens to die, do we?"

"When I say you may not drop anything into their home, that means NOTHING--but especially small items: no Legos, no Barbie heels, no My Little Pony hair brushes, no Japanese erasers, and no gems from the Snow White and the Seven Dwarves mine set. Got it?"

Of course, they both shook their heads, wide-eyed, and agreed to the logic of my argument (which they probably forgot about immediately, as children often do). Mason and Camille scampered off to play.

In the end, they weren't the ones I needed to worry about.

A few days passed without "hencident" and then, one evening while I was folding laundry in the bedroom, I was startled by a sudden chirping/squaking/screaming symphony of noise bursting from the cardboard box. Were the pullets fighting, flying, dying? I sprinted down the hallway, expecting the worst.

And when I arrived at the scene? Well, what was going on looked a lot like a childish, fast-paced playground game of tag or keep-away. One pullet had something small and plastic in her beak and was running around in circles as fast as her little legs could carry her; the three other pullets were chasing her (and peeping) as fast and as loudly as they could, pecking at her tailfeathers all the while. Within seconds, the first hen had dropped the small item, another hen picked it up, and the rest of them turned to chase her around in circles in the opposite direction. What were they fighting over? I couldn't quite tell, but I was fearful that one of them may try to eat it if she could only get it away from the others.

I reached in, grabbed the pullet in the lead, and pried the tiny, clear, rubber oval from her tightly-clenched beak, returning her, disappointed, to her home.

"What is this?" I wondered. "Mason, Camille--come here!"

But when they appeared, first one, then the other, it was apparent by the looks on their faces that they didn't know what it was, either. And that left only one other person to ask.

"Hey, that's the ear piece to my cell phone head set!" exclaimed my husband. "Where'd you get that?" he asked.

"The question is... where did the chickens get it?" I responded.

My husband, of course, denies any responsibility in the incident, and because I do love him, I'll let this one go.

At least I know that if another small foreign object should ever "fall" into the chicken condo, I'll know immediately by all of the ruckus!

And I can certainly, definitely proclaim that chickens shouldn't use cell phones.

Meet our Girls!

Pocket Square Farm's Four Pullets

The verdict is in and our girls are named. Well, we're still refining the names. And crossing our fingers that our chicks are all girls. Our pullets came with a 98% guarantee to be female... but apparently chicken parts (and I'm not talking about drumsticks and thighs) are very difficult to distinguish at this age. If one turns out to be a rooster, the Blacksmith's Corner said they would take him back and return him to one of their breeders. I'm crossing my fingers it doesn't come to this!

Before I reveal their names, here are a few pictures of the chicken condo my husband and I created for them. It's nothing fancy, merely two large packing boxes taped together with a few modifications, but they seem to like it!

The Warm Room has the Heat Lamp Clipped to One Side

The Cool Room Holds Chick Mash and Water with Electrolytes

Anyhow, we named our chicks on the premise of them being female. We also invited our best friends' kids/pseudo-daughters to name two of them and act as honorary owners (i.e. constant visitation rights and babysitting responsibilities)! So, here are their official titles.

Buff Orpington #1 is the larger of the two and quite vocal when she's pulled away from her friends to be held. She is the least interested in being cuddled. I hope she isn't a he: Camille named her Peck Peck. Leave it to a 3-year-old to name a chicken Peck Peck. We've taken creative liberties with her choice and are now calling her Penelope "Peck Peck" Pocket (as in Pocket Square Farm).

Buff Orpington #2 is small and gentle. She loves to roll around in her bedding and fluff out her honey-colored feathers. Beckitt (and her parents) aptly named her Serafina Sweets.

Serafina Sweets with Camille

Our Araucana seemed anti-social at first. I don't think she's really a loner; she was just in a different cage from the other three at the feed store and is having trouble being accepted into their little chickie click. I think she's also a week older than the rest and is being perceived as a bully by the other three, though she's really very gentle and goes to sleep immediately when you hold her! Mason named her Esther because she lays colorful Easter Eggs... thus, Esther the Easter Egger!

Esther the Easter Egger with Mason

Last but not least, our Barred Rock Hen, the black and white one. Addison didn't name this chick during her first visit, but a name struck her on the car ride home: Lillian! I love her choice, as Lily was one of our runners-up when we were naming our daughter Camille. Lillian is a perfect name for this loving and graceful chick who snuggles up in the palm of your hand and lays her head down softly on your wrist, gazing at you dreamily while you pet her. Dare I say it? Lillian may be my favorite!