For decorative baking at a level that I don’t do, take a look at this:

http://fancyflours.wordpress.com/

It is early afternoon. The hens have been let out of their pens to wander around the yard. The girls that live in the HenCam coop are rustling in the leaves under the bushes. They are scratching up bugs in the partially frozen lawn. Eggers has gone to the pond to take a drink of bracingly clear and cold water. 

Six hens live in the big barn. They are, what I call, the “bossy girls.” They don’t tolerate bantams. They are aggressive to newcomers. They don’t like to share their corn or their space. You would think that they would be good foragers, but no, they are too jealous of the hens in the smaller barn. They think that it must be better there. So, while the HenCam barn girls are out and about, the big barn hens go into the smaller yard. They take dust baths. Surely, the other hens’ dust is better! They go into the coop and drink their water. They look for bits of corn under the rabbit hutch. Even the corn is better!

Meanwhile, the HenCam barn hens do NOT go into the big girls’ barn. They know that the good stuff is to be found in the grass and under the trees. They are quite happy.

Partly, the differences in these two flocks are due to breed characteristics. Some hens are bossier. Some more willing to go further afield. Partly, flocks take on personalities. It is fascinating to observe their differences.

One thing is the same for both – when I shake a container of cracked corn and call, “here girls” they come running. It is easy to sort them into the two groups. They know where they live and they know who their friends are. 

Interesting isn’t it?

Seven years ago we bought a piece of land because it was in the town we love and had some attributes that were hard to come by – no wetlands (which means no hassles with the conservation commission), 900 acres of conservation land and a great trail system next door, and in an established neighborhood of people of various ages. We hired an architect, but, honestly, he dropped the ball, and most of the design is mine. 

The entire house is designed around my office. Am I lucky, or what? We positioned the house so that I could watch for the school bus in the afternoon, but the view really is all about the meadow across the street. I have a small porch, wired for my laptop. In my fantasy life, I sit out there, with a glass of lemonade and write.

In reality, wasps have found the decking to be a perfect environment and I battle them all summer. This time of year there are no stinging insects, but it is too cold to enjoy. 

My dog, Lily, loves the porch. It has a great view of the evil UPS trucks that she is vigilant in defending our house against. Lately, there have been sunny days when it’s warm enough for her to curl up on her bed out there, but most days, it’s way too frigid. We have a routine. I’ll be working at my computer. She’ll come over and nudge me so that I can’t type. I say, “it’s too cold.” She pesters me until I get up and let her out. A blast of 20 degree cold air comes into my office. She circles the porch once, then comes back in. I say, “I told you so.” We are both ready for spring.

There was a scary sight in the big barn this weekend – blood on the wall and a messy bloody dropping under the roost. Obviously, someone had expelled something.  I looked closer at the poo. It was wet, red and large. It was obviously blood and not stained from berries, or something else foraged. 

 At the first sign of illness, the sick hen should be isolated. Immediately. I looked at the hens to determine which one needed my help. All six were standing at my feet, waiting for treats. Everyone was bright-eyed and hungry.

I grabbed some cracked corn and squatted down to observe my birds as they ate from my hands.  There were no signs of illness. No raspy breath, lowered heads, or sluggish movement. 

I picked up each hen, turned them over and examined the vent areas. No signs of blood or injury. 

What to do? I checked in with knowledgeable chicken friends who were as puzzled as I was. Blood in the stool often indicates coccidiosis. But, the girls showed none of the other signs of that problem. Worms? No other signs.

My best guess is that someone had an egg break inside of her, and as she pushed it out, she damaged some of the oviduct, and so expelled a bloody mass. This is a guess. There was no shell or anything resembling an egg in the manure, other than that it was bigger and wetter. 

I could have put all of the hens on a course of antibiotics, but I decided to wait.

Four days later and everyone is still fine. Yet another mystery of chicken keeping. At least this one has a happy ending.

PS – After I cleaned up the mess, I thought that you all would have liked to see the evidence. I was so involved in caring for the girls that I didn’t think about it until it was too late. Next time, I’ll remember my camera! Meanwhile, this poultry forum in England has a new, terrific area just for photos of poo. It’s quite useful, as manure is one of the first clues when figuring out health issues in your flock.

Last year I planted rutabagas as a second crop after the greens (spinach, chard, mesclun) were done. They were fun to grow – they came up fast, and they were visible. Unlike carrots, I could see the bulging purple tops rising out of the ground. Immediate gratification!

Unfortunately, I harvested only a few before the freezing weather hit. The ground seized up solid and they were stuck! Then it snowed and they’ve been covered. This weekend the weather was in the 50’s and the snow melted and the ground softened. I pulled up a basketful. 

Some were cold damaged. I could tell by the texture and color. But a few rutabagas were in perfect shape. I can imagine what it was like, years ago, when your own garden was your only source of vegetables and how, after a difficult winter, you found a treasure like these remaining rutabagas in your garden.

I brought them in, washed them and pared off the peel and areas that had gone too green. Cut them into 1-inch chunks and put in my favorite old enameled cast-iron pan. Tossed them with oil, salt and pepper and roasted them at 350 for an hour. Then, as soon as they came out of the oven I topped with a handful of cheese and ate immediately.

It sounds simple, and it is, but it’s the attention to details that matter when working with only a few ingredients. The rutabagas were trimmed so that only the best parts were cooked. The oil was a mild olive oil. Not the most expensive, but just right for roasting vegetables. The salt was Sicilian sea salt that I brought back from Rome. Yes, those expensive salts do taste different than table salt. The pepper was fresh cracked from my mill. The cheese? Real Parmesan. The sum of the parts was perfect – sharp, salty, sweet and peppery.

I’m sorry that I don’t have a photo. I was going to go into the garden today and take a picture of the remaining rutabagas left to harvest. However, it is, once again, snowing. (sigh) I think that the thaw and now this freeze will ruin the rutabagas still in the ground. I’ve now had two chances to harvest those rutabagas… do you think I’ve learned my lesson?