it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken

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Feral breakfast

I had feral chicken eggs for breakfast. There's actually a kind of only-in-Las-Vegas story behind this, because one of the interesting things about this city is that it's growing so fast that old horse farms and pig farms and these things they call "ranch estates"--which are basically a suburban ranch-style house on two, three acres of land so you can have some goats or chickens or donkeys or a couple of horses--are getting surrounded by Heinous Southern California Stucco And Tile Cinderblock-Wall-Enshrouded Dwellings. Enveloped. Consumed by them.

Anyway, my office is in a neighborhood of these ranch estates. There are four burros and two dogs in the back yard. It's kind of restful: if you get stressed out during the day you can go out back and scratch your ass, so to speak. Burros are restful.

Well, one of the neighbors has a flock of chickens. For values of "has" that include, he brought them home, and lets them run wild all over the place. There's a tall arrogant green-tailed rooster (familiarly known as "stew," for his tendency to start crowing at two a.m.) and a bunch of raggedy red hens. I think they're Mexican fighting chickens, although they're not being raised for cockfighting. They're just sort of... enduring under a neighborhoodwide blanket of benign neglect. They seem pretty healthy (and the rooster is belligerent enough to take on a passenger vehicle) and they come and go as they please.

And they probably keep the scorpion population down a bit.

Anyway, as it's warmed up a bit, the hens have started laying. More or less everywhere, with that chickenish disregard for if the eggs actually ever hatch.

When I walked into work this morning, I was greeted by my boss, who, with a twinkle in her eye, said "Would you like some eggs?"

I figured she meant, you know, scrambled, leftover from her breakfast or whatever, and since I'm not ready for much more than coffee at five AM, I said "No, thank you."

And she said, "That's the wrong answer."

So I said, "Yes, thank you, I would love some eggs."

And she presented me with six actual chicken eggs. Not those big cylindrical white things you get from the supermarket, but small, elliptical, beige, slightly dirty chicken eggs. Which, when duly scrubbed and candled and cracked into a frying pan, have high, creamy orange-yellow yolks and whites that almost don't need frying to set them; you just have to look at them mean.

Real, fresh chicken eggs.

Don't ask me about my cholesterol level, but my mouth is in heaven.

Once again, I am reminded of why someday, I want to live someplace where I can have a couple of chickens.


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