The agriculture department has baby chicks and baby bunnies. Is there anything more Easter than that?
I am a native Chicagoan, and when I first moved out here, one family from my homeroom would invite me to their farm once a week for dinner. They had horses we rode, a pack of dogs, some barn cats, and chickens.
My old dog Emily was about the chillest dog around. She was so laid back that my friends and family called her the Buddha dog. But there was something about chickens that really appealed to her. She would chase them for about ten minutes and then lay down and pant. She’d get up again and repeat. She sure loved going out to the farm, and she would sleep like a rock after we had been there.
I remember trying to help with chores once. I tried to help collect eggs, and I have to admit, I had no idea what to do or how to do it. After several minutes of laughing at me as I tried to approach the chickens, saying, “Hey, chicas! Is it okay if I come in here and snake your eggs from ya? I’m cool, girls,” my friend decided that perhaps she would get the eggs herself, and I could just carry the bucket. To give you an idea of how much of a city girl I was back then, I was wearing flip flops.
Those eggs were the best. The shells were a gorgeous, oaky, tan-brown color. And the yolks were a rich mustardy gold. And they tasted different. Fresh.
I see these chicks now and wonder, if I kept one as a pet, in Freeport, would she give me some fine eggs? I’m pretty sure it’s against our city ordinances, but a girl can dream.