THE CHICKEN OR THE EGGS?

Food for thought on raising chickens for the eggs...

A two-minute read

All the recent talk about the shortage of eggs and poultry in general has brought back a flood of memories about the year when I, along with my husband and our 12-year old son, took up residence in New Zealand. It was a dramatic change of our pace from our life in the United States. One we all whole-heartedly embraced. But more than that, it was an experience that had us entirely out of our comfort zone. We met new people with vastly different perspectives from our own and we were willing to try new things. Like how we did laundry and raising chickens.

We lived in a charming, two-bedroom cottage that overlooked a breathtakingly beautiful lake just outside of Rotorua on the North Island of New Zealand. We could see, miles in the distance from our perch on the edge of the mountain, a partial view of the luxurious estate that lay at the edge of the lake where Tom Cruise resided during the filming of “The Last Samurai”, most of it hidden beneath a canopy of lush foliage and forest, a sea plane ready to take off parked offshore. We all agreed. We’re not in Kansas anymore.

One of the first things I noticed when we arrived at our new mountain home was that it had a washing machine but no dryer. When I asked the landlord about it he simply told me I didn’t need one. Any other questions? he asked. Is there a laundromat nearby? I queried. He laughed. It wasn’t long before I figured it out.

In the center of our vibrant green patch of backyard, was a pole cemented in the ground, fitted on top with a revolving circular frame, rows of clothesline strung from one side to the other. Aha! In the summer, I hung freshly washed clothes outside to dry. I could spin the frame in either direction, fastening one shoulder of a shirt with a clothespin, then the other shoulder, before turning the frame to an adjacent empty space for the next piece of apparel, instead of moving the basket. Brilliant! I also loved the idea of the fresh scent of clean air blowing through our threads and using the energy of the sun instead of expensive electricity to dry them. It appealed to me on so many levels. Both the apparatus, a familiar symbol of 1950’s Americana, and the practice itself, drying clothes on a clothesline outside, was illegal in our neighborhood in the States from whence we came. Illegal?!?, one Kiwi friend exclaimed when I mentioned. Yes. Essentially, I told her. I then clarified, explaining that the rules of our HOA, the Home Owners Association prohibited such. But as I said. Essentially illegal.

In the winter, we hung our wet clothes to dry in our kitchen/dining room, the center of the house, where the wood-burning stove sat. Our damp clothes decorated the entire area. Draped over table and chairs, hung on hangers then hooked over kitchen knobs, it gave the space a modern day “Chinese laundry” look. But again, when in Rome. No one used an electric dryer. It was an expensive commodity and most preferred to conserve the hydro resources used to power the generators. On to the chickens.

It wasn’t long after we moved in that we noticed they seemed to be everywhere. They would wander in and out of our yard, like a stray dog or cat. New Zealand, if you didn’t know, has no predators – no foxes, no coyotes. No lions, tigers or bears either. So when they managed to escape a coop, which many homes in every neighborhood had, they would wander, eventually finding their way home in time for dinner. Most of my new Kiwi friends had chickens. The idea of raising a few and having fresh eggs to gather suddenly became very appealing.

I consulted a friend seasoned in the practice of raising chickens. I wanted the experience of raising them, watching them grow, bonding with them, connected to nature and the circle of life. We built a rudimentary chicken coop in the backyard. Rather my husband and twelve year old son built a chicken coop. They followed an architectural plan, and I use that term loosely, using chicken wire (appropriately named) and a few pieces of lumber. We named it the Taj Mahal.

50/50 chance of getting a rooster, my friend Joy told us when my son and I went to her house to pick up the two fluffy, cute peeps she had secured for us. Huh? You can’t tell whether they are male or female at this young age, she said. Luck of the draw, she added.

50/50? Surely we are on a lucky streak and will have an egg-layer between these two, I thought. After all, we were living in New Zealand. How lucky is that?

My son christened the chicks Chirpy and Dash and we lovingly placed them in their Taj Mahal. Little did I know, Mother Nature can be a cruel harbinger of truth. But I digress.

How soon till those two-start laying eggs? my husband asked after a couple of months. We just wait till they get old enough I guess, I told him. Clearly if the sex of a chicken can’t be ascertained when they are babies, so too it is anybody’s guess when they’ll start egg laying, was my first thought.

But of course, they do know these things. Four months. That was the target date to start looking for fresh eggs. The weeks passed and when we calculated the time had come for Chirpy and Dash to start producing eggs, we embarked on a daily egg hunt. Any eggs? my husband asked us at the end of each day. My son and I would sadly shake our heads.

One morning, at daybreak, before the alarm went off, I awoke to a very strange sound coming from just outside our window. I bolted upright. What was that? I asked my now wide awake husband. Err-er, Err-eera, Errr-a, oooou. My dear Watson, he said, I do believe that was the strangled sound of a very hoarse, adolescent, dare I say, rooster. One down, one to go. Within the week, we learned we had lost both coin tosses.

The rest of our year in New Zealand we were the proud owners of two very cheeky roosters who became part of our family. They loved to be held and petted. They often peered at us from the other side of the back porch sliding glass doors, necks craning, their red wattles wobbling, their beaks politely pecking at the glass, reminding us they were hungry, which they always seemed to be. They also left an incredible amount of chicken poop everywhere.

By year’s end, with our sights set on going back home to Virginia, we started looking for a good home for Chirpy and Dash. Not surprising, no one was interested in two roosters. Joy suggested a farmer she knew who might be willing. Reluctant as he was, he finally agreed, and we put Chirpy and Dash in the car and drove them to their new home. Handing them over to the farmer, we said our final good-byes to our friends, to which the farmer added his assessment of what fine specimens we had raised. Thank you, I answered. They’ll make great chicken soup he added, with sincere appreciation. I turned and got in my car, trying not to be teary, and made the bumpy drive down the dirt road, back to the two-lane highway.

The circle of life.

I left New Zealand intrigued with chickens in general. Their unique history and crucial role in civilizations around the world marks them as one of the most vital creatures relied upon for survival. Which also gives rise to that ancient of all questions: Which came first? The chicken? Or the egg?

Interested in creating your own egg supply? Click here for an excellent beginners guide in how to raise chickens.