Egg Gathering Among Strangers

I KNOW there are worse things. I realize that in the scheme of things that register on the Richter scale of life experience, this . . . well, doesn't register. But in the clean, flourescent ballad of the lonely grocery-shopper, this was an entire verse. I bought grocery store eggs for the first time in 4 years. It was a jolting moment.

I can rationalize up a whole diagram of excuses for why I bought eggs from the store. (I need to get some baking done a.s.a.p; I spent most of the weekend already moving 2 and a half feet of snow out of my various pathways; The signs along the road that read, "eGGs $1.00" are not visible under the 7 foot snow banks at this particular point in time.) But the fact is that I just didn't plan ahead and the grocery store was really convenient.

So, there I was in the grocery store where yuppies go to get great deals, half-expecting to find a local source of eggs, but I found only a multicolored stack of styrofoam that began on the floor and towered over my head. Here is a brief summary of the thoughts that crackled and popped through my brain's circuitry as I tried to select some eggs:

1) "Okay, what does 'Grade AA' mean? Do I get the light blue styrofoam eggs, or the light green? Okay, I'm going for the blue. Blue's pretty. There are more blue ones than green or pink or white."

2) "This guy waiting for me to get out of the way must think I'm a total weirdo."

3) "Right, you're supposed to check to make sure none of them are cracked" (as I looked around to see what the other 4 egg gatherers were doing).

4) "AHHHH! White!"

5) "Hmmm . . . no cracks: good."

6) "Put it back! Put it back! This package has an egg with those small see-through speckles that mean it's like totally more than a month old!"

7) "Actually, do I really believe any one of those zillions of egg cartons are going to be fresher?"

8) "Um, no."

9) "Check the sell-by date. FEB 15 00097776389. Check."

10) "So. These are my eggs. These. Here in my hand. Blue styrofoam: soft."

I really needed a human interaction at that moment to put the smack down on the chorus of voices in my head. (But it was more likely that I would have gotten a 'bow to the ribs for blocking the door to the egg cooler for so long.) The hard part of this experience was that it was a tangible, in-my-face example of how my life is changing. We're moving. I don't have chickens. I don't have any idea where I'll be getting my eggs for the forseeable future. At the moment, lots of other things feel a wee bit out of my control. Grrr.

Like I said, I understand that there are worse things. It's just that 1) Eggs have come from my chicken coop the past 4 years; 2) Lots of people have chickens around here and I really could have found some fresh eggs from backyard hens, easy; and 3) These are the facts of my life in transition. So, while I'm rationalizing, maybe I will chalk this one up to an "anthropological expedition" to discover the modern, suburban methods of egg gathering. And it only cost a buck and nine pennies.

New Chapter of Grateful

The Rock Garden Project was named after the many mini-boulders I dug up from the garden over the past 3 years. In the spring, when the vegetation was just a dream, the garden was full of rock sculptures and rock steps. The stones pointed the way to the rows of seeds hiding in the warming soil. Rocks anchored the cold frame plastic. Some rocks still bear faded labels: "cilantro" and "buttercrunch."

I like keeping track of my quest to be one with my food sources. I plan on continuing the quest and the keeping track, but I'm not sure where I'll be growing vegetables next. Over the past few months, without even trying, I started plotting my next moves. And this is what I've come up with.

Looking out the kitchen window into the back yard of the house we rent in mid-Michigan, you see a large fenced-in area. The piles of junk and long strands of dried brown grasses lead me to believe that the landlords (it is their yard, actually) don't garden every inch of it. There will be a conversation in the future, wherein I gently inquire about this garden and its potential for producing for us some fresh veggies. From what I gather, the family is a busy, frugal, do-it-yourself kind of tribe, with not a lot of country living experience. Though, they do have a wandering flock of chickens, peacocks, ducks, guinea fowl, and llamas. There is potential here.

I also have learned that llamas are communal defecators. That is so much more exciting than you might think. They politely perform their poopies in a pile of garden fertilizer! All I have to do is haul it over to the garden!

From what I've gathered about the natural history of Michigan, I will most likely be working on a Sand Garden Project. It was too easy to garden when I owned my own land and animals. Too easy. I'm no longer a landowner; that will make things more interesting. This is really about where my food comes from, so I'm going to continue to document that.

I was really surprised to learn that groceries are about 30% more expensive in East Lansing than in grocery stores north of Syracuse. They are about 10% more expensive than groceries in Pulaski, NY. A couple years ago, after realizing that we're all getting ripped off here at the P&C in Pulaski, I started making trips every 3 or 4 weeks to the Wegman's store in Cicero. I think it's perceived as the more "upscale" store. But the prices and quality were both much better there. But my point is that it is convenient and obvious to go to Meijer for groceries in our new home. It will take a bit of detective work to seek out other sources of food than these most obvious ones.

I'm still interested in the details of our food systems. This move will give me a chance to ask more questions and face more challenges. I can make comparisons between regions as well. I'm thinking of my Amish neighbors here in NY, who provided me with beautiful vegetables when I needed more or my bell peppers were wimpy. The suburban jungle of East Lansing is in sharp contrast to the rural, even wild, landscape of northern Oswego county.

one llama... and the fertilizer pile

Reconnaissance

Who would have thought that I'd be doing any gardening on a day like this? We have over a foot and a half of fresh snow on the ground, the winds are gusting to 30 mph, and the lake effect snow just keeps coming. As of right now we've had 62 inches of snow at the house this season. I know we live in one of the snowiest places in the East, but for the past few years, the snowfall before Christmas has been nominal. Barely memorable. I figured this year would be similar.

So, I left a couple rows of carrots in the garden through the Fall. I read somewhere a description by a gardener of "the sweetest carrots we'd ever eaten." I wanted that. She had planted carrots late, insulated them with straw, and then harvested them throughout the winter. I decided to plant some late summer carrots that would mature just before the frosts came. I insulated them and figured that I would visit the garden whenever I needed a few, probably up until Christmas.

I didn't think much of it when it snowed October 29th. Two weeks later we had a foot of heavy snow, and in the commotion of getting the snowblower running and clearing the driveway, I forgot all about the carrots. They were buried. I knew, at least, they wouldn't freeze. I got a little complacent waiting for the next big meltdown that would clear the snow. Around mid-November there seemed to be a trend to this snowfall. I figured I'd better get out there and rescue the carrots. We had a few warmer days last week and only about half of the ground was snow-covered. I meant to get out there and dig before these latest 2 feet fell. But I didn't.

This morning, I followed the deer tracks out to the garden with my pitch fork and snow shovel in hand. I also carried a bucket to put the carrots in when I found them. I started digging around the dried-up dill skeleton, and I reached the floating row cover that was no longer floating. When I pulled up the cloth I discovered tiny radish sprouts (my optimistic attempt at late season veggies). Dang. The carrots were here somewhere... right?

I eventually moved enough snow to get my bearings. I pulled up the cloth and found the carrots. It was a little disorienting to smell the soil and the sharp carrot scent. I had planned on finding 20 or so carrots, but instead discovered over 12 pounds of them. My bucket filled up quickly and I had to pile the rest in the snow shovel. After I was confident I'd gotten them all, I pulled the snow back down onto the soil. I'd upturned some worms and other fragile, freezable things. I went inside and washed them all in the kitchen sink.

They are, in fact, quite good. Probably the best carrots I've eaten. I brought in the rest of the potatoes from the garage, too, and made a big pot of chicken vegetable soup.

The Garden Underground

So I woke up at 2:30 a.m. on Monday morning with way too much on my mind. During my first year of teaching, I instituted a personal sleep hygiene policy for whenever I wake up at 2:30 in the morning with way too much on my mind. The rule has since been that I have two choices: get up and do something about whatever is on my mind, or vow to tackle the problem at the appropriate time (tomorrow!) and let myself fall back asleep. There is no lying there worrying myself into a stress-hormone overdose. Well, Monday morning a litany of house projects, specifically, refinishing the cabinets before we show the house to prospective buyers was on my mind. I tossed and turned for another 30 minutes, and then I got up and started sanding. So, with towels draped across the gas stove, a damp bandana wrapped bank-robber style around my face, and the BBC Health Report blaring, I enforced my sleep hygiene policy.

I’m stressed. No doubt about it. I’m manic and whiney and willing to spill my cortisol-logged guts out to anyone within earshot about how much I have to do. But the fact is there is no emergency. It will all get done. It doesn’t all have to get done today. I realized this today when I went to find my brain and it was out to lunch. Or perhaps more accurately, I should say it was out in the garden. Instead of focusing on the planning and grading and phone calls I need to take care of, I’m staring out the window. I’m talking to myself about my life and my plans and all of the things I’m going to miss when I go; and I seem to have no brain cells left for progress amongst all this worry static.

It was time to break and dig the sweet potatoes. I wasn’t sure what I was going to find. Sweet potatoes are supposed to love super warm weather. This summer was not a friend to the sweet potato. There was barely a day this summer that was warm enough for the beach! However, as I am wont to do, I pampered my little vegetables just a bit. Just a bit. I draped floating row covers over the vines for most of the summer to create a sultry microclimate in the sweet potato patch. Now, I must mention that these morning glory cousins did not have it easy this growing season. I acquired them from Chris’s mother (who can actually bring plants back from the dead; I’ve seen it with my own eyes) in late April. She brought it to Hopkinton, MA in a kitty litter bucket when she met us there to cheer us on in the Boston Marathon. It was a gorgeous organism that seemed to glow, exuding life and vegetable potential. I knew it was nothing short of a garden miracle that I now possessed. I got it home and planted it, sure that it would have a perfect early start and maybe some robust tubers to harvest in the fall. Then came the hard freezes of May 28 and 29. Everything in the garden died except the peas. (The carrots were under a mini-green house and were okay, and the lettuce made a quick recovery, but potatoes, herbs, beans, and squash were toast.) I was sure my little sweet potato miracle had been squashed like a black fly.

The rest of the summer was cool. The deer had snacked on sweet potato leaves so many times that I was planning violent midnight encounters between their necks and my hands. In the morning, I’d run at them, yelling, waving my arms, and ka-thunking along in my mud boots whenever they appeared near the garden. So, when I went out to dig up the harvest, I wasn’t sure I’d even need a container to carry the loot back up to the house. But I started on the perimeter of the patch and dug my way in. Skinny little pink ropes wound through the soil. They tangled with each other and among the rocks. Eventually I reached into the cold, dark earth and pulled out a handful of actual sweet potatoes, regulation size. I kept on digging. I dug up 15 pounds of the bonus tubers. I hadn’t expected anything. But there I was, harvesting a respectable pile of starchy root vegetables and getting face cramps from the perpetual smile. It was another success I hadn’t counted on. Actually, there had been early summer moments I’d thought about digging up the little vines to make room for more predictable vegetables. There was a bit of faith involved here. The kind of faith I’m getting more and more familiar with. Plant the seeds, amend the soil, feed the chickens, clear the weeds and wait. Sometimes there’s just nothing more you can do to control a situation. It’s just time to wait and have faith in the work you’ve done up to that point.

I screamed like a girl when I upturned a slumbering toad the size of a tennis ball. Its white round belly horrified me for a second. I was sure I’d gored or decapitated an innocent garden gnome. Or a smurf. After considering walking to the neighbors’ house to reassure them that I had not fallen off the roof or clothes lined myself somehow, I squatted down to consider this very rotund toad. (I’d very much like to read his account of the event as I’m sure his perspective was a bit different.) I took a break and gave him the chance to make his escape and went over to the huge sunflower head on which chickadees were landing and feeding on seeds. My camera was nearby and I set a goal of capturing the natural bird feeder being patronized. As I sat there in the October sun, the leaves ablaze all around me, I unwound. I realized how precious that time was. I was doing what recharges me most: following the unfolding story of the garden for as long as it takes. The one early sunflower that I’d let go to seed had sucked up all the plant’s energy and was now a big bird food factory, instead of a fleeting cut flower on my dining room table. The chickadees had set up camp in the shrubs bordering the garden, swooping back and forth between the sunflower and the shelter of the blueberry bush. The sun was low but warm in the crystal blue sky. The toad was warming up and, I imagine, making new winter hibernation plans. Three turkey vultures soared high above, making a b-line south. I was grateful that I’d caught a glimpse of the latest developments in the garden story plot.

I never cease to be amazed by underground vegetables. You don’t get to watch them grow. There’s no solid reassurance that they’re actually doing what they’re supposed to. You just have to wait. Maybe I let fear creep in too much. I consider all of the things that could go wrong. I feel the need to peek and guess and predict. No matter how many times I do it, I’m always surprised by the leap of faith it requires. I needed to stop and listen to that story just then.

Chicken Update

The injured layer is getting better every day. She's walking with less of a limp each day. I hope to release her in just 1 or 2 more days of rest and recooperation in the cozy, warm pen. When she's well enough to roost with the others, she'll stay warm enough up high in the coop next to her fellow layers. She's walking even better now than she was in this video. In this video she's grazing and then kicks her oatmeal. Exciting stuff.

Last Saturday we were busy doing work around the house, when our neighbors ran into our yard after their "foster dog." It looks as if a stray dog was dumped near our house, and the neighbors have taken it in. It's a cute dog. It's nice. But on Sunday I was painting the window trim in the back yard when I heard two unfamiliar voices. It was our neighbors again. (We've seem them 3 times since we've lived here, and two of those times were last weekend.) They were carrying one of our hens over from their yard. I knew right away that their dog had gotten ahold of the hen. This group of hens doesn't leave our yard. They rarely even go out of our sight. They're really tame little girls. The hen was limping and the others immediately attacked her with pecking. I scooped her up and examined her. There wasn't any blood, just a lot of slimy dog saliva. There was an obvious puncture on her back. Many of her newly molted feathers had been torn off. I went through the usual, "Is this a mortal wound?" routine and decided I'd give her a few minutes to rest before I made any rash decisions. I hate to see chickens suffering, mostly because they're so tricky to treat. I was really disappointed that we'd managed to keep our chickens safe for 3 years by providing them with roosts and cooping them up at night. And now, someone's loose dog was about to cost us a layer.

Well, we've kept her separated for a week. She's had a heat lamp, because it seems she might have a fever and be fighting off some infection. She's had antibiotics and oatmeal. She's eating and drinking. She even gets up and walks around a little bit. That reminds me, I've got to move her little coop tonight when I get home. She might make it. These layers are so much more resilient than meat birds.

I can't wait to see her running around with the others soon.

I went down to the coop to find almost 2 dozen eggs. I couldn't say which day I was down there last to collect eggs. It's been a busy month with packing, getting the house ready to sell, and coaching cross country. The chickens have been on their own lately. I leave the coop open all the time. They go in at night and roost up high so they're safe. They roam the yard all day, grazing for goodies. Their pelleted feed is moving much more slowly now that they're free-ranging so much. It takes the pressure off me. They're basically self-sufficient.

The only drawback is the crop of free-range poops all over the yard. Now it's mandatory to take your shoes off at our door. Who knows what you stepped in on your way here?

Chris trained the chickens to be little tame pets. Before, they weren't really interested in people. After feeding them treats and rounding them up like the Pied Piper, Chris trained them to come when called. It's fun to see them running expectantly, full tilt in your direction.

They have a new home in their future. I wish I could haul them to Michigan. (Maybe I haven't fully considered my options.) For now, there's a family that wants some layers for their little farm. I plan to transplant them there sometime in the next few weeks. It's hard to imagine being in the yard without little chicken-foot-stomp-through-leaf noises. It's hard to imagine life without farm chores, as minute as this 'farm' is. It's been a pretty simple equation the last few years: care for the chickens = eggs to eat. Buying them at the store seems so foreign and illogical. Raising chickens was novel three years ago. Now it's routine.

I love eggs. I take them for granted and I savor taking them for granted. (Is that possible?) We have what seem like limitless supplies of egg salad, fritatas for dinner, biscotti, and chocolate chip cookies. I seek out recipes that call for 6 or 12 eggs just to use them up. Fast food means fried egg sandwhiches for dinner. It's not that each egg isn't a little treasure, or that I ever waste our eggs. It's just that there's an abundance of them. And there is an abundance of eggs partly because of the care and effort we put into the hens.

There is a fine line. This summer, one of the hens got sick. Because chickens are chickens, it's tough to know what's ailing them, or to perform necessary procedures once you know what the problem is. So this chicken was weak, absent of appetite, squirting liquid green diarrhea, and generally droopy. I was nervous, and I didn't want to see it suffer. I was prepared to euthanize. I decided to give it a week of isolation, special food, and antibiotics. I agonized quite a bit, imagining that it was egg-bound and suffering from horrible pain. But it kept eating, so I kept feeding it. It kept drinking. After 8 or 9 days, it was looking really good. I eventually released it back into the flock and it's been fine ever since. I might have been less patient, and thus needlessly slaughtered a hen, but I gambled and I waited and the hen survived. It turned out to be worth it.

I can't exactly tell the chickens apart, but I do recognize different characteristics, as if they're all one organism. I know that one of the hens has short tail feathers because she got too close to the heat lamp last winter. I know two of them have worn wing feathers on their shoulders from when we used to have a rooster. I know one of them has a really floppy comb. One of them is smarter than all the rest: she seems to learn faster and change her behavior based on observations. If it weren't for the eggs, I wouldn't have chickens. They're not really the best pets, in my opinion. I prefer snuggly dogs. If they weren't laying eggs, I'd think of them as free-loaders, sucking up more than their fair share of crickets, worms and snakes. It's their eggs and manure that pay their rent here. But I have to admit that their enthusiastic little waddle run and friendly flocking has been nice ever since Chris, the chicken-whisperer, got ahold of them.