The Usual Suspects (or Chicken Run?)

Looking out of the kitchen window this morning, this rather wonderful line-up was just a metre or so away from me.

Hoping they would stay there long enough, I ran to grab the camera and shot this just before they flapped their wings and jumped to the floor in rather ungainly fashion.

Reminded me of The Usual Suspects. Either that or Chicken Run.

Left to right: Eggels, Henin and Marx. The most revolutionary hens this side of Havana.

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Pressing the ‘reset’ button

To all intents and purposes, we live in the countryside. We may be but a short hop to the nearest town and only an hour from London but it is large fields and big skies that form our surroundings.

But sometimes it is easy to overlook that. Or at least develop a complacency.

As silly as it sounds, occasionally I forget that we are living life in the slow lane complete with vegetable patches, miles of hedgerows and an abundance of wildlife all around us.

Perhaps it is something to do with the weather. During the spring, summer and even into autumn I spent a significant amount of time outside. Digging over the soil to make room for vegetables. Sat in the sun eating a fresh salad for lunch. Lying on the lawn and writing. Picking blackberries from beyond the sharp thorns of the brambles or scrumping apples from the abandoned orchard next door.

But come the chill of winter, the rain, the frost and the wind, spending time outside has not been an appealing option. The world seems to have narrowed to the point that, now that January is here, the only thing that really exists are the four walls of my office.

Then something will happen to remind me why we moved here in the first place, something presses my reset button and allows me to open my eyes for a brief moment and actually see.

I was in the kitchen making some breakfast when I heard a faint knocking at the back door. Too quiet to be a neighbour or the postman I looked out of the window to see that the hens’ run was empty.

Sure enough, there they were, the three of them waiting by the back door for handful of something tasty – dried fruit or some seeds.

I sent them on their way with a handful of chopped dates whilst I made do with a toasted hot cross bun (seasonality going out the window here) and a mug of steaming tea, consumed in the garden with the sun just beginning to peep over the skeletal trees. Certainly worth braving the cold for.

Which came first?

A few months back we bought two chickens, Marx and Eggels in the hope that they would provide us with a near endless supply of fresh, delicious free range eggs. Sure enough by the end of November, just as we were giving up hope that either would ever provide us with anything other than vague entertainment, Marx started to lay and we have had an egg every day since then.

The excitement of opening the hatch every morning and finding a perfectly formed egg sitting atop a pile of straw hasn’t dulled. Nor has the novelty of eating them freshly poached, happy in the knowledge that they have travelled no furter than ten metres in their journey from chicken to plate.

But it soon became obvious that Eggels was something of a late developer. Her comb hadn’t grown, she didn’t seem to be putting on any weight and she spent a long time seemingly imitating John Cleese doing a Ministry of Silly Walks sketch. We contacted Cambridge Poultry, where we bought our two revolutionary chicks, and the conclusion was that we had invested in an ‘odd-bod hen’ who didn’t seem destined to lay anything other than epic amounts of chicken poop.

As such, we were offered a replacement, free of charge. Perhaps replacement is the wrong word because there was never any question that Eggels would be returned to sender or end up in the pot. She’d become a pet quite rapidly and we couldn’t even consider the possibility of turning her into food. We’d just let her peck her way around the garden, enjoy our hospitality and generally live the good life.

Just after Christmas we finally got round to picking up chicken number three, Poulet, or Pou, for short. She’s a feisty little chick with a revolutionary zeal stronger even than the other two. So much so that I’ve nicknamed her Henin (in order to keep up the Communist theme).

But then something odd happened. I noticed this:

An egg sitting merrily in our recycling box. I had no idea how long it had been there – whether it was freshly laid or if it had survived three or four frosts but either Marx was laying more than her fair share or Eggels, spurred into action by the threat of a new arrival, had finally started to fulfil her destiny.

And I wasn’t sure which until yesterday when I looked out of the office window and saw Eggels sitting in her newspaper nest looking very pleased with herself, something distinctly egg-shaped underneath her feathery bottom. After she’d got bored and flown off to try and find some bugs to eat I went out to confirm my suspicions and there it was. An Eggels egg.

It may have taken a while, but it was definitely worth the wait.

With Pou due to start laying in the next few weeks I dare say that we will have more than enough to keep us in delicious breakfasts with plenty left over to make sweet tasty items like crème brulee and cinnamon meringues (more on those to follow). I might just have to start baking…

Please welcome to the stage…

A full two months ago I introduced you to Marx and Eggels, the two most revolutionary chicks this side of Cuba. We bought these two hens when they were a mere 15 weeks old and since then they’ve done little but stalk around the garden and eat raisins. They’ve certainly not been earning their keep by laying any eggs.

Not a single one.

It became something of a running joke: perhaps in the revolutionary spirit they downed tools in some passive act of insurrection. ‘We shall lay no eggs until the demands of the proletariat have been met. Death to the bourgeoisie!’ We even toyed with the idea of getting another chicken to try to placate them. She would have been called Henin.

We tried putting a ping-pong ball in their nest box in the vague hope that something resembling an egg might trigger a hitherto dormant desire to lay. This failed too – they merely kicked it out of their little house and proceeded to kick it around their run and peck it into oblivion. We’d even started discussing the possibility of maybe, maybe having one or both of them for Sunday lunch, but I’m still not sure whether the notion was ever a serious one.

And now it doesn’t matter because this morning there was something warm and distinctly egg shaped sat atop the straw.

So without further ado, I am delighted to be able to introduce you to Sheldon, our very first egg and currently the most expensive ova I have ever had the pleasure to hold – I think, when you factor in the cost of their house, the chickens themselves and the copious amounts of food they nom through, this single egg is worth more than Sevruga caviar.

But it is worth every penny because this is the first and I dare say it will make the smallest, tastiest omelette ever created.

Friday Nibbles – Eggs

A couple of months ago I managed to pull a muscle in my side, the one that stretches from your shoulder blade right round the front. I wish there was a rugged and manly explanation for this injury like I’d been wrestling a bear or paddling a raft full of orphans to safety across roaring white water. Sadly, and unsurprisingly, there isn’t. I managed to sustain this particular mischief by sneezing whilst in a slightly awkward position. And it was quite possibly the most painful thing I have ever done, and that includes falling off a large horse at the age of eight and being badly winded.

For about three weeks I couldn’t breathe deeply because the pain caused by pressure in my side was too much too bear. Every time I wanted to turn around in bed I had to mentally prepare myself like a wounded sailor readying himself for an amputation with only brandy anaesthesia to numb the pain. Swimming was virtually impossible and even the act of drinking was a chore. Sneezing also held a particular fear – every time I did so (and this happened an awful lot thanks to the high pollen count and my body’s frustrating inability to deal with it) it felt liked I’d cracked a new rib and I couldn’t help but grimace and emit a loud grunt that either of the Williams sisters would be proud of.

I also learned that comedy injuries, much like football, are a universal language thanks to a protracted encounter with a Thai masseuse in Bangkok. Despite my protestations, I was ordered by my girlfriend – no doubt increasingly concerned over my growing reliance on the strongest painkillers it is possible to purchase over the counter – to go and avail myself of the services of the nearest Thai massage expert (no sniggers or jokes please, this was entirely above board and no ‘happy finish’ was mentioned).

I tried to keep my injury secret but there are few places to hide when wearing but a pair of pants and lying down on a padded table. As soon as she started prodding, poking, kneading, pushing, pulling and stretching me where it hurt there was nothing I could do to stop myself recoiling in pain. She soon became fascinated with my right side and took all of about nine seconds to realise there was something wrong.
In broken English she asked me how I’d done it. I doubted whether the word ‘sneeze’ was one she had picked up and I toyed with the idea of saying ‘fight’ but it’s hard to act out that particular action whilst semi-naked, prostrate and with an arm held behind your back. With a combination of mime and enthusiastic sound effects I managed to convey that it was, in fact, a nefarious sneeze that was the cause of my ills.

She laughed so hard that she momentarily lost the ability to massage. This was, evidently, too good to keep to herself and within a few seconds of regaining the ability to speak she had summoned her fellow masseuses to come and stare in wonder at the crazy farang who’d managed to render himself incapable through sneezing. I found myself surrounded by Thai ladies each fascinated by my injury, each wanting to have a poke and prod and each struggling to conceal intense laughter.

After the kafuffle had died down and the gaggle of masseuses (a gaggle of masseuses? A pummel of masseuses? I just don’t know what the collective noun for such a group is) had vacated, she got to work on my side with tenacious enthusiasm. By the time she’d finished I could lift my arm above my head without wincing, I could sneeze without fear of bursting my rib cage, I had a full 360 degrees of motion. I was cured!

The reason I’m mentioning this now is because I’ve managed to suffer an almost identical injury but on my left side this time. And it wasn’t thanks to a rogue sneeze. After an hour chopping firewood (with an axe, no less. Can’t get much more manly than that) I returned inside to have a cup of tea. As the day wore on I developed a realisation that all was not well with my side muscle and each deep breath was bringing with it an eerily familiar pain. By the time I got to bed I had to resort to super strength painkillers in order to dull the ache enough to fall asleep and come morning I found that I couldn’t roll over without doing the sailor/amputation mental preparation routine again.

Of course, this digression has little, if anything, to do with this week’s Friday Nibbles. I was merely hoping to amuse with this self-deprecatory tale of woe. And perhaps garner some sympathy. Anyway, onto more relevant matters.

The egg is a single celled wonder. A magnificent and spectacular piece of natural engineering housed within its own little shell temple. Without the egg, the kitchen would be a far less interesting place bereft of so many things we take for granted. We’d have no cakes, for a start. No muffins. No mousses. No soufflés. No consommé. No custard. No crème patisserie. No pancakes. No meringue. No béarnaise, hollandaise, mayonnaise. No pasta. No tempura. And that’s before we even begin on omelettes, scrambled eggs, boiled eggs, fried eggs, poached eggs, coddled eggs, baked eggs, oeufs en cocotte…

Hopefully you see where I’m going with this. Eggs are pretty much essential to any and every kitchen. Unless you are a vegan, in which case they’re not. But you’re missing out, seriously.

Need a hearty breakfast? Fried eggs on toast is ideal. Brunch would be incomplete without pancakes or eggs Benedict. Hard-boiled egg at lunch time? Don’t mind if I do. Need to impress at dinner? Twice baked goat’s cheese soufflé should do the job. Feeling peckish just before bed? A quick omelette should fill the hole. Suffering from a hangover? A bacon and egg sandwich is virtually guaranteed to cure what ails ya.

And the most amazing thing is that we’re only just beginning to understand what goes on inside these little wonders. Hervé This, the famed molecular gastronomist, dedicates a large portion of his time and a huge amount of experimentation to eggs. He has found ways to cook and uncook eggs without the application of heat. He has discovered a way to cook an egg to a temperature that renders the yolk pliable and mouldable like play-doh. He knows exactly how much mayonnaise can be created from a single egg yolk (the answer is a lot) or how much meringue can be made from a single egg white (buckets of the stuff). He knows more about eggs than anyone else in the world.

But none of this matters when a fried egg, sat atop a piece of lightly toasted wholemeal bread is waiting to be devoured. Truly egg-shellent food indeed (sorry, couldn’t resist).

Have a great weekend.

Two new residents – Chickens

Well, we did it. We were going to wait until this weekend but the sight of an empty chicken hutch was just too much to take and so on Saturday we toddled off here, to Cambridge Poultry, to pick up two brand new house mates. And I am delighted to be able to introduce you to Marx and Eggels, the most revolutionary chicks this side of North Korea.

At the moment they are about sixteen weeks old and aren’t due to start laying for another month, or so, but in the mean time they should provide much amusement as they scratch around, eat bugs, crap all over the garden and gradually become accustomed to their new surroundings. Once they start to lay, we should see about 300 eggs a year from both of them giving us a bounty of fresh eggs for breakfast as well as a plentiful supply left over for baking and giving away.

Although we were trying to remain impartial, we quickly ended up ‘adopting’ one each. My girlfriend was keen for a traditional brown hen (ours is a Blacktail), whereas I plumped for something a little more unusual (a Nera). Once we got them home and into their new run, my dark-feathered Nera soon established herself as the more confident and cocky (excuse the pun) of the two and was quickly given the moniker Marx as de facto leader of this rebellious pairing.

They are wonderful to watch. So reptilian, like miniature, feathered dinosaurs with sharp beaks, keen eyes and Triassic looking claws. They miss little and any noises will have them craning their necks, heads darting to try and find the source of the sound. They seemed intrigued by a passing plane, only to be distracted by a large caterpillar that had foolishly (with a little help from me) wandered into their run. A happy, and sunny afternoon, passed quickly as we watched them do their thing.

Once dusk sets in, they should instinctively find refuge in their hutch but this being their first night, they were not keen to venture into their Eglu. It looked as if more drastic action might be called for and so the run was opened and we waited for them to emerge, poised to grab them as soon as they came close enough.

Eggels was happy to be picked up and hoisted into her new house, via the ‘egg hatch’. It was warm and cosy with a generous covering of straw. Marx, on the other hand, was both less keen and a lot faster than her passive collaborateur and made a break as soon as she saw an opening. Between my flailing arms.

The plot next to our house is an overgrown thicket of about an acre where brambles cross the pathways like mutated barbed wire and nettles grow in frightening abundance. Don’t let her go next door, said my girlfriend. Whatever happens, don’t let her go next door.

But as Tsar Nicholas II found to his cost, once the spirit of revolution has been aroused, there is little that can be done to suppress it and within a few moments, Marx had disappeared into the wilderness. Armed only with a pair of flip flops and a dying torch, I didn’t fancy my chances of finding her. Not that I said that to my increasingly panicky partner. I tried various calls: ‘Karl? Karl? Harpo? Groucho?’ hoping that she might respond to one but to no avail. She was as silent as the rapidly encroaching night.

I grew gradually more worried. There were certain to be foxes around. We’d had Marx less than six hours, surely we couldn’t lose her this quickly? Fairground goldfish survive longer than that. As I scanned the dying beam of the torch through the thick growth I thought I saw her red comb but it turned out to be no more than a cluster of unripe blackberries. A small movement close to my feet was just a small creature, most likely a mouse, running through the dead leaves. ‘Chico? Chico?’

Then my girlfriend spotted her halfway across the field. The wily chick had cleverly made a break for freedom via the undergrowth and as soon as she was clear headed for the open expanse behind the house. After chase of comic proportions, that I would have seen had I not been trapped on a bramble, she was caught, passed over the fence and wrestled into her hutch, the door shut firmly behind her. Panic over.

‘Running off in an apparent bid for freedom? Foraging absentmindedly in the overgrown forests with no thought for those left behind? Free range in the broadest sense of the word? She is so your chicken.’ Said my girlfriend.

I smiled with pride at this assertion.

Punching above their weight

One of the first things we said that we would do when we moved to the countryside was buy chickens. Real live clucking, pecking, laying chickens so that we could have the freshest organic eggs possible. Unfortunately, these have gradually slipped down the shopping list to make way for more essential items such as a sofa or bookcases to house the many hundreds of books we’ve collected over the years. And to be perfectly honest, I can barely look after courgettes and kale so it is probably best that I get used to tending plants before I’m entrusted with something that breathes and craps.

The benefit of living the rural life though is that we don’t have to go very far to get our eggs even though we haven’t invested in any hens ourselves as yet. A mere four houses down the road is the extent of the distance we have to travel to buy eggs laid by happy birds free to see the sky above or peck at worms and bugs below.

We usually go for plain old hens’ eggs, occasionally stretching to duck eggs if we are feeling indulgent – the yolks are larger and richer and they poach beautifully thanks to their freshness. But in addition to these conventional ova, quail and bantam eggs are also on sale.

Now, I’ve never really been able to see the point of quail eggs. They make a relatively good garnish. If you are crafting a selection of canapés, for example, then a fried quail’s egg sitting proudly atop a morsel of toasted truffle brioche is a delicious mouthful but they have little everyday application.

I was also unfamiliar with the bantam breed until quite recently. These are about half the size of a traditional brown hen with eggs proportionally smaller which is why we’ve never really bothered with them before. It would seem that we aren’t the only ones and our egg people struggle to sell them, instead they gave us a box for free on Saturday morning for which we were truly grateful and curiously intrigued.

They are an absolute revelation. On cracking one into a hot pan, I was surprised by how much egg managed to fit into such a small shell. The yolk was a deep yellow and larger than any supermarket yolk I’ve ever seen. It took less than a minute to cook and, once done, I slid it onto a waiting slice of home-baked bread, lightly toasted and generously buttered so that a little of the butter dribbled over the side. Topped with no more than black pepper and a few flakes of sea salt, this was comfort food at its delicious and simplistic best – guaranteed to force and smile and convince me that these bantams pack a serious punch.

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I couldn’t write a post about chickens without mentioning the fantastic ‘Chicken Out’ campaign for a free-range future. Sign up here.