Are You Ready to Hatch an Unusual Chicken? Read online

  Note: It is extremely rare for all eggs to hatch and for all chicks to survive hatching. As a responsible poultry keeper, you will provide the best possible chance for your eggs to hatch and your chicks to thrive by following these instructions. If you’ve done everything you could, please know it isn’t your fault if something goes wrong.

  For Days 19–21 for standard chicken eggs (Days 16–21 for bantam chicken eggs), see REDWOOD FARM SUPPLY INCUBATION CHECKLIST, Part Two.

  Date: Tuesday, August 5

  To: Hortensia James

  From: Sophie Brown

  Subject: Eggs to hatch

  Dear Hortensia,

  Thank you very much for the eggs. Most of them made it here just fine, except for two. That wasn’t Gregory’s fault, and I guess it probably wasn’t your mailman’s fault either.

  I will let you know when the rest of the eggs hatch.

  Sincerely,

  Sophie

  PS My friend Chris says they look like bantam eggs, and I agree, so I’m following that schedule. Please tell me if we’re wrong.

  PPS Don’t worry, I’m getting a coop ready for them at Redwood Farm, where they’ll have plenty of space away from my other chickens.

  Tuesday, August 5

  Agnes Taylor

  Ghost Farm: ghostly chickens for unusual farmers

  Dear Agnes,

  Your friend Hortensia sent me some eggs from your chickens. Gregory called us to let us know they arrived, and Dad drove me down to pick them up, and I signed a form for the post office. Dad drove really carefully, and I held the box on my lap the whole time.

  Chris came over to see the eggs and help out. I opened the box, and we dug through all the shredded paper and found the eggs, all bubble-wrapped separately. Two of them were broken anyway. I couldn’t see any dead chicks inside—Chris says they haven’t been around long enough for that—but there was a little blood in the mixed-up raw egg, and I felt like throwing up. But Chris said we needed to concentrate on taking care of the rest of them, so I just kept moving.

  We unwrapped all the eggs that weren’t broken, and Chris put them in an egg carton very carefully, big ends up, like you said in your instructions. Chris drew me a calendar while I made a new chore checklist, so I could keep track of the egg tasks as well as all my regular chicken chores. Then we decorated the cardboard box I’m going to use as a brooder. We drew portraits of my other chickens, so the chicks could get to know them while they grow up. (We put Henrietta on the outside of the box, because she might be a little too scary-looking for baby chicks. But I’m sure they’ll learn to love her when they’re older.)

  For some reason your friend Hortensia sent me a plastic bottle too. Chris says it’s a different kind of chick waterer, with a metal thing the chicks peck at to make water come out. I’m excited about hatching the eggs, even if I am a little nervous about it.

  Your friend,

  Sophie

  PS Gregory told me that farmers almost never ship adult chickens, only eggs or just-hatched chicks. That’s why Hortensia sent the other chickens special delivery instead of to the post office.

  PPS I didn’t tell him I thought it would be a bad idea to ship eggs or chicks like Aquí and Allí that were small enough to fit through the wire cage Hortensia sent them in, even if it was in a crate too. I guess sometimes you have to make different arrangements for unusual chickens.

  Wednesday, August 6

  Agnes Taylor

  Heaven’s Best Hatchery

  Dear Agnes,

  I’m incubating your eggs now. Just thought you’d like to know. It was pretty tough to get the temperature just right, with only a dial that says “Increase” and “Decrease.” But I was patient and tried not to get too frustrated.

  Now I just need to wait. For days and days and days. And turn the eggs. Over and over and over and over again.

  Good thing I have Great-Uncle Jim’s chickens and Aquí and Allí to keep me busy until they hatch.

  Your friend,

  Sophie

  PS I’m going to practice observing Great-Uncle Jim’s chickens as well as Aquí and Allí. After all, they’re from Redwood Farm too.

  Sophie’s Chicken & Egg Chores:

  Morning:

  Wash hands

  Check temperature and humidity

  Turn eggs

  Feed chickens & give them clean water

  Collect eggs

  Make sure no one’s being too mean to Aquí and Allí

  Afternoon:

  Wash hands

  Check temperature and humidity

  Turn eggs

  Clean poop out of the henhouse

  Give my chickens a treat

  Read to my chickens

  Record chicken-observation notes

  Sell Henrietta’s glass eggs to the feedstore

  Buy more chicken food with my glass-egg money

  Night:

  Wash hands

  Check temperature and humidity

  Turn eggs

  Check to make sure Henrietta didn’t lock any of the chickens out of the henhouse for the night

  Poultry breed observations by: Sophie Brown, unusual poultry farmer

  Observations made: Thursday, August 7

  Type of bird: Bantam White Leghorn

  Gender of bird: Hen (like Henrietta, get it?!?)

  PLEASE RECORD YOUR NOTES ABOUT THE FOLLOWING:

  Comb: pinkish red and pointy

  Beak: yellow and pointy

  Eyes: orange with black pupils

  Wattles: red

  Earlobes: white

  Beard: nope

  Head: white

  Neck: white

  Body: white

  Tail: white, points up

  Legs and Feet: yellow, no feathers

  Eggs: bantam-size eggs that look and feel like glass (not edible)

  Typical movements: Walks around, glares at everyone, moves other chickens out of her way, opens and closes the henhouse door with her mind.

  Typical vocalizations (if any): Kind of loud and a little cranky

  Interactions with other poultry: Everyone knows Henrietta is the top chicken, even Aquí and Allí, so they don’t bother her too much.

  Unusual abilities: Henrietta can move things with the power of her little chicken brain. Even things that are bigger than she is.

  Needs further research: What’s the biggest thing she can move? (Note: test this carefully!!!)

  Friday, August 8

  Mariposa García González

  A place where you’re happy, even if we miss you

  Querida Abuelita,

  Guess what? LUPE IS FINALLY HERE!!!

  When Samantha called this morning to see if I could go blackberry picking, Mom told me to go ahead, everything was ready for Lupe, and if I brought enough blackberries home, we could make something special for dessert. Dad thought she’d probably be here by dinner, if traffic wasn’t too bad.

  Samantha told me to wear sunglasses and long sleeves and pants, and to bring a bucket and a wire coat hanger.

  Dad helped me find a bucket and a coat hanger, and Mom suggested I take peanut butter and pickle sandwiches and apples. I made peanut butter and jelly instead, because even though peanut butter and pickle is my mom’s favorite and I kind of like them too, I don’t eat them in public.

  Everything fit in the bucket, even my water bottle. I hung it on my bike handlebar and rode off to meet Samantha by the trail.

  The only person we saw for the first mile of trail was a teenage white girl on a horse who waved to us. I never knew you had to wear a special helmet when you rode a horse. Sam says otherwise you could fl
y off and land on your head and kill yourself, just like you could riding a bike. I wanted to know why they didn’t make one helmet for riding bikes and horses and maybe motorcycles, so you didn’t have to have so many different helmets. “Maybe they do,” she said. “Or, maybe no one does yet, so you could invent them and make a million dollars when you grow up.”

  But I reminded her that I was going to be a poultry farmer and sell chickens to people, so I wasn’t really going to have time for that.

  Finally, Sam stopped near some huge blackberry bushes. She got out a blanket and spread it on the ground, and I collapsed onto it. “Lunch first!” I said.

  So we had a picnic. Sam brought sandwiches with something called braunschweiger, with lettuce and pickle. It was a ground-up spread that smelled kind of good but weird. “What is it?” I asked her.

  She thought about it for a moment. “I don’t really know. Maybe ground-up liver or something? It’s kind of like spreadable hot dogs.”

  I tried one. It was pretty good, whatever it was. She said her mom was going to make sardine sandwiches, but Sam didn’t know if I was okay with eating fish with the bones and eyeballs still in it, and besides, they got smelly on hot days.

  After lunch, Sam showed me how to unwrap the wire on the coat hanger, straighten it out so it’s long enough, and pull the tall vines down with the hook, because the best berries are too high to reach. Her grandfather showed her how.

  Sam said her mom calls the trail people every year to make sure they haven’t been sprayed with any bad chemicals, even though every year the trail people tell her they’re not allowed to spray, since it’s bad for the creek. She says you shouldn’t pick the ones that are low enough for a dog to pee on, though. I asked about horses, because they’re taller than dogs, but Sam has never seen a horse pee on blackberry bushes, so she thinks we’re okay, as long as we wash them off well.

  “What will you do with all your blackberries?” I asked after we’d been picking for more than an hour.

  “Most of them get washed and then go in the freezer for later,” Sam told me. “So you can have blackberries whenever you want them. But if I bring home at least half a bucket, Mom will make pie too. Or Dad will make crisp, because he isn’t good at piecrust, but he knows how to do the crunchy topping part. Or you can just eat them with milk and sugar.”

  It was hot and dusty, but we had our water bottles and sunscreen and sunglasses. That weird summer buzzing noise went on and on—it’s some kind of bug, Dad thinks—and once in a while a plane would fly overhead, or someone would walk down the trail and point out any berries we missed, or ask about the coat hangers. The air smelled a tiny bit like horse poop, since people don’t have to clean up after horses the way they have to clean up after dogs, but mostly it smelled like sweet hot blackberries.

  We ran out of time before we ran out of berries to pick.

  “Maybe I can bring my cousin Lupe next time,” I told her. “She’s eighteen, and she’s taller than me. And she’s fun.”

  “Sure,” Sam said. “How does she feel about sardines?”

  I shrugged. “I can ask her.”

  Riding home was harder, since I was hot and tired and had to balance my bucket of blackberries.

  But it was worth it when I got home and gave a few blackberries to my chickens. They loved them so much! I’m glad, because I’m pretty busy these days, what with hatching new eggs, and Lupe coming, and school starting soon. I want them to know they’re still the greatest chickens ever, even if I can’t hang out with them as much.

  Then I showed my parents the blackberries and the crisp recipe I’d written on my arm when Sam called her dad.

  “This is ten times more blackberries than I ever picked!” Dad told me. “Well—without eating them before we got home, anyway.”

  Mom grinned. “I hope you ate at least a few!” Then she told me she might need to interview me for an article idea she had about living in the country. “Would you say that blackberry picking is one of the best parts?”

  I thought about it. “Well, it’s not as good as having chickens, of course. But if you pick blackberries with a friend, and have a picnic, and get to make blackberry crisp for dessert—yeah, I think it’s a pretty good part.”

  Dad was reading the recipe on my arm. “We can do this—no problem!” he told me. He set the oven to 350 degrees and turned it on, and we got to work.

  Dad and I have a pretty good routine when we cook together. First, we decide who’s going to be the boss chef and who’s going to be the sous-chef, who’s more like the chef’s assistant. Since I picked the blackberries, we agreed I’d be the boss chef this time.

  Meanwhile, Mom set the table for four, and put Lupe’s favorite pasta salad in our most beautiful bowl, and got out chips and corn salsa that she’d made from the corn and tomatoes and cilantro that Jane gave us from their garden, and some pickled jicama that Gregory gave us when he heard my cousin was coming to stay with us.

  Once the blackberry crisp was baking in the oven, we waited and waited and I got antsy, and finally Dad put some music on. Then we danced to Beyoncé with the music so loud we almost didn’t hear Lupe at the door. You can turn the music up really loud when you have a whole house, and nobody bangs on your ceiling or anything!

  But somehow Mom heard the doorbell, and Lupe came in and put a huge bunch of flowers on the table and danced with us and gave us all the hugs and kisses that everyone from LA had sent for us. She’d changed her hair since we moved away—it’s short-curly now, instead of long-curly—and she was wearing jeans and a skater sweatshirt with flowers and a dragon on it. But she still has the same smile. Mom made us stand next to each other to see who’s taller (Lupe, but not by much now!). Then Mom hugged us and told us what beautiful, smart, strong young women we are, and cried a little bit, but in a good way. Like you used to.

  We miss you, of course, and we always will. But we know you would want us to have fun, and we’re doing a good job of it.

  Te quiero,

  Soficita

  PS You know what? That blackberry crisp was the best we’d ever had in our whole lives, even though it was the first time I made one. I’m going to pick blackberries every year!

  SAM’S DAD’S BLACKBERRY CRISP RECIPE

  (AS WRITTEN ON MY ARM)

  Ingredients:

  4 cups blackberries, fresh or frozen (enough to cover the bottom of a casserole dish)

  1 tablespoon cornstarch

  ½ cup flour

  1 cup brown sugar

  1 cup oats

  ½ cup (1 stick) butter

  Instructions:

  1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

  2. Put the blackberries in the pan.

  3. Sprinkle the cornstarch over the blackberries and stir them around. (This step doesn’t have to be perfect. In fact, Sam says her dad doesn’t worry about getting any of it perfect, and it still tastes great every time!)

  4. Cut up the butter into chunks and put it in a bowl with the flour, brown sugar, and oats.

  5. Squish the butter into all the rest of the stuff and mix everything with your (clean!) fingers, until it feels like little floury, oaty butter lumps.

  6. Carefully dump the lumps all over the top of the blackberries. Spread them out evenly.

  7. Bake in the oven for about 30–40 minutes, or until the blackberries look more like jam and the lumps are medium brown and the whole thing smells amazing.

  8. If you have any left over, put some tinfoil over it and put it in the fridge.

  Note: Sam says you can make crisp with pretty much any fruit, not just blackberries. Although she’s never heard of anyone making banana or pineapple crisp.

  Saturday, August 9

  Mariposa Garc�
�a González

  Heaven

  Querida Abuelita,

  Today I woke up when the birds started singing, and I couldn’t go back to sleep. So I snuck downstairs very quietly and made myself some oatmeal.

  It wasn’t long until Lupe came down. Once she’d eaten her oatmeal and made some coffee for her travel mug, I told her I’d show her around.

  It was a perfect morning. I mean, it’s summer, so everything is dry and brown and dusty, but it wasn’t too hot yet, and Dad borrowed Gregory’s friend Mark’s goats the other day to do a lot of cleaning up. (Mom took a picture of Dad walking the goats on leashes. Everyone in LA was amazed!)

  We still have all of Great-Uncle Jim’s junk piles, of course, but I explained to Lupe that they weren’t just junk, they were junk that he thought he might need, and that a lot of farmers keep a lot of things around just in case. Violet says that’s from when there weren’t many stores in town, and that farmers can’t always afford to buy things right when they need them.

  Lupe loved our barn. I explained about the incubator and my new eggs, and how I have to keep them the same temperature that the mom hen’s fluffy feathers would keep them, and I have to turn them the way she would, so the chick embryos develop properly in their eggs. I can’t let the humidity get too high, or the eggs won’t lose enough moisture, so there won’t be enough space for air for the chick embryos to breathe. I can’t let it get too low either, or the eggs will dry out and the chicks could get stuck to their shells when they try to hatch.

  Lupe is really excited to learn to use Great-Uncle Jim’s old typewriter in the barn loft. She got the paper in almost straight on her first try, and I can tell she’ll do great, with a little more practice.