up with the chooks

For someone who claims to despise clichés, am I becoming one?

Boy quits job, turns freelancer, family moves to country, girl bakes bread, has chickens… what's next? pot-bellied pigs? (or maybe Wessex Saddlebacks?) er, not just yet. 

Whatever. I LOVE chooks. Love them. We always had them when we were growing up, my sister Naomi was in charge of them. This place already had a fantastic chook run, so with a bit of tinkering and a family adventure up to the same poultry provider my Dad used to use… here we are. 


These are layers, not meat chickens, so we decided to name them. We've named about half so far: Benedict, Custard, Scrambled, Noodle, Poached and this gorgeous lady above is Hollandaise. 

And Mum, that's not really your granddaughter eating the hay while sitting in a chook pen. Really it's not. 



Getting set up… 



Nesting boxes!



Ad hard at work. (With a ring-in, no he's not mine.) The baby in the straw, yep, she's mine. 



Henry off to check the egg count. Again. (The chooks moved in a mere two hours before.)



Henry moving at high speed with super exciting news. Lady with camera, son. Slow down! And did you just hurdle your baby sister?



Yep, that's exciting. Our very first egg.



Happy, happy cliché. With home grown eggs Benedict. 


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