Reddit user Buckinuoff posted a photo of eggs. Not just any eggs, a basket of them, in shades of blue, green, tan, and brown, like a pastel treasure haul. The title reads, "My girls laid some pretty eggs!!" And they are, indeed, pretty. But here's the thing: as someone who both keeps chickens and is low-key terrified of them, I have to ask, did you risk life and limb to collect those, Buckinuoff? Because I would have. And I would have loved every clucking second of it.
This is the kind of post that makes our community so beautifully unhinged. We celebrate the shells as if they're precious gems, because they are. Each color tells a story: the breed, the hen's mood, maybe even what she ate for breakfast. That blue one? Probably from an Araucana or an Easter Egger, a breed that lays eggs that look like they belong in a fairy tale. The tan one next to it is classic, a production hybrid, steady and reliable, the workhorse of the flock. We don't care about the breed breakdown as much as we care about the joy of seeing that basket. It's proof of a good, happy flock. It's proof you didn't chicken out on the morning scramble.
So what does this mean for you, the reader who just found a green egg in your nesting box and is now texting me at 6 a.m.? Practical terms: take a breath. You are not alone. We have all been there, heart racing, wondering if that olive tint is a sign of illness or just a new hen's first attempt. (Ninety percent of the time, it's just a new hen. The other ten percent? She ate too many beet greens. Yes, that's a thing.) If you ask me what to do with your pretty egg haul, I'd say: take a picture first. Resist the urge to scramble them immediately. Post it. Let us coo over the color palette. Then, cook them gently, soft-boiled, maybe, so you can see that yolk color, too. It's all part of the obsession.
And if you're the one who's scared of the hen who laid that egg? I get it. I really do. I have a Buff Orpington who stares at me like I owe her money, and I still flinch when she pecks my boot. But I'd wade through that terror for a basket of eggs like Buckinuoff's. Because the fear is part of the fun, it means you care. And when you finally hold that warm, speckled, ridiculous little egg in your hand, the fear melts into something absurd and wonderful. You don't need to love the chicken; you just have to love the egg. And maybe, just maybe, forgive the feathery menace who made it.