The chickens we had back then, decades ago, were crafty, beady-eyed, athletic creatures who protected their eggs and hated being sent to the chicken house at night. You had to be really quick and determined to reach under them while they sat on their stupid eggs; sweet-talking never worked, and I dreaded their accurate, sharp beaks. I was nine years old. If I was 20 minutes late it was almost impossible to get them out of their roosts in the apple trees and back into the hen house, safe from marauding predators. I watched impassively while my mother took a hatchet to their necks on the chopping block. Later, when I found out chickens are descendants of velociraptors, I thought, "That makes perfect sense."
|"A" says that the black chickens produce eggs like the one in the upper right, brown chickens produce the ones in the middle, and white chickens-you guessed it-produce white eggs.|
|Sometimes when I open a carton of eggs from "A" I see this pattern|
|Sometimes it looks like this.|
Well, never mind.
|The last dozen looked like this.|