The Gold Rush
You never forget your first.
Your first car. (a yellow VW beetle)
Your first beer. (a Natty Lite in Dylan Craft’s shed with Ariana Arroyo and Dougy Bauer)
Your first heartbreak. (Matthew Mangarella turning me down at recess in first grade)
Your first lay. (in the bottom row of nesting boxes, the second in from the right, Thursday, July 23, 2026)
I’m talking the first egg lay. Keep your minds out of the gutter - this is a family newsletter.
Drew and I were outside Thursday morning when we heard a throaty, feral cackle coming from the chicken coop. We looked at each other, side-eyed and quizzical.
Urgently, yet trepidatiously, we left the tomato plants we’d been tending to and approached the coop.
A Black Star - the emerald highlights on her dark, velvety wings shimmering in the light - proudly emerged… and left a small egg behind.
We clocked the time around 10:30AM. We know that hens can lay approximately every 25-26 hours. Sure enough, Friday morning near 11:30AM, the same Black Star cried out her “egg song” and generously gifted us with an egg nearly twice the size as the day before.
Chickens may not track days on the calendar or wear watches on their wings, but they do have a strong sense of time. Their circadian rhythm helps regulate their system, so a hen will lay slightly later each day until she skips a day and restarts in the morning. This Black Star has been our consistent Employee of the Month since last week.
To think we have little feathered dinosaurs that depend on us in exchange for eggs boggles my mind. Sure, sometimes they are skittish, aloof, and come across like they have one brain cell - but sometimes they have flashes of brilliance and are genuinely sweet and playful. They take themselves very seriously and somehow expect us to do the same. They each have their own routines, rivalries, and quirks - and it's nearly impossible not to become invested in their tiny dramas and daily routines.
Caring for chickens means loving them without pretending they’re something they’re not.
