Eggs for Breakfast

My dad has chickens.  He calls them his "girls".  He got a bunch of them this spring when they were really small yellow bundles of fluff.  They were so cute!  Tom took a picture of them with my baby brother, Greg. Chicken babies and people babies, both are very cute!  Those chickens have gotten big much quicker than Greg has though.

Greg was born last fall, in November.  When it was finally time to bring him home, I went in the car for the ride.  I couldn't wait to see him.  Once we got home I got to hold him, he was so small and helpless and couldn't even hold up his head or keep his eyes open.  He is bigger now though, even though he's still a baby.  He can't even walk yet, although he is starting to crawl around.  It feels so nice when I hold him in my  arms, he is so nice and warm and cuddly.  My heart feels so big it could burst when I hold him.  I had asked my mom for a little sister, but got Greg instead.  That's okay, it will be a long time before I can play with him anyway.

My brothers and I go into the back yard where my dad has built the hen-house and their fenced-in yard.  At first, the chicks stayed in the hen-house where there was a very big light that kept them all warm and toasty.  Then we watched as they started to get bigger, white feathers.  They looked just terrible for a while, kind of like those dinosaur birds, but slowly they have started to look better again.  More white feathers have come in and they look much better - round and puffy white.  These chickens eat every green thing inside their fence.  They eat leaves and even small branches.  They've eaten all the grass.  They scratch in the dirt and even EAT the dirt.  We feed them in the hen-house, and sometimes we throw some feed into their yard, too. It's fun, though, to throw a worm in through the fence and then watch them chase one another to get the worm.  It's kind of like watching chickens play football. One of my brothers threw in a frog once, and that really got them going, but somehow it wasn't the same - it seemed mean, to me.  I don't mind throwing in a grasshopper, though.

The chickens have gotten even bigger and some have started to lay eggs.  It's fun to go and check for eggs in the hen-house; you never know what you will find.  Sometimes the eggs are very small and round, and sometimes we are lucky and get a double yolker!    But you never know how many yolks until you crack it open.  We wash the eggs carefully in the sink and put them in the fridge. It is hard  for me to imagine that one of those eggs, if you let it, will turn into a little yellow chick.

I walk into the kitchen this Saturday morning after watching cartoons all morning.  I don't see Mom or Dad and so I check out the door to the driveway - ah rats - the car is gone.  They've already gone into town to do the shopping, and I've missed out.  Even though I don't need anything, I like to go for the ride and push the cart in the grocery store, or get dropped off at the library so I can check out new books and talk with Michelle, the librarian.  She's so nice.

Tummy grumbling, I realize that I haven't even had my breakfast yet.  Philip is at the stove and he's just finished making some scrambled eggs; they smell really good.  I open the cupboard where the cereal is, and there's some puffed rice cereal there but today it just doesn't seem like it will be enough.  I check in the fridge and there's no leftover porridge, either.  Not that I like leftover porridge, I'm just checking my options.

"Phillip, will you make me an egg?" I ask suddenly, surprising even myself that I've asked him.

"I'm just eating now, why don't you make your own?" he answers back, looking up at me in a pause between mouthfuls.

My brother Phillip is a neat brother.  He always has great snack ideas - like putting peanut butter on toast and then sprinkling white sugar on it - not too much, just enough so that it all sticks.  Or like toast with butter and then brown sugar and cinnamon - yum.  I don't know if he actually invented those or not, but somehow I never remember those things until he does them first.  But then, he will also eat leftover porridge COLD, in the bowl right out of the fridge.  That's just crazy.  But he helps me with homework sometimes, if I ask, and he's patient with all of my questions.  That's pretty neat.

"I've never used the stove," I answer back, wondering if I'm allowed to use the stove, if I'm old enough, and how old is old enough?

"Okay, I can tell you how and you can do it, okay?" he offers.

I jump at the chance, and go to the fridge to get an egg out.  I  see the big double yolker that I just found that morning, and can't believe that no-one else has used it yet.  I pick that one and carry it carefully back over to the stove, and place it gently against the pot lid that is on the counter so that it won't roll away.

"Okay, you need to put some butter into the pan, and then turn the stove on - turn it to the 4.  Make sure the handle is pointing to the side so you don't knock it over," he instructs me from his place at the table, between mouthfuls.

"Then, crack the egg on something hard and try not to get any eggshells in there.  If you get some, you can fish them out after your egg is cooked.  Then just stir up the egg with a fork until it's done."

It seems so easy; even though I'm wondering how much butter to use, and how hard to crack it.  I'm not asking yet, though - I'm just trying to do it.  It is harder than I thought it would be to crack the egg open, but it's pretty neat.  Feels like an experiment.  I pour the egg into the pan and - yay!  Double yolks!  I check for shells - can't see any!  Well, not too many... I use my fork and stir it all up.  Those yellow yolks are just like sunshine, and I use the fork and mash them like potatoes. So much fun!  Some of the egg has already started to cook and it is so neat to watch it go from clear to white, I just have to keep stirring.

Soon, the egg is done and I turn the stove off.

"Good job," Phillip says, "that's the most important part - remembering to turn the stove off when you're done."

Proud of myself, I go and get a plate for my egg.  I'm wishing that I had made some toast, but don't want to take time now to do that.  I carefully scoop the scrambled egg out of the pan and onto my plate, not wanting to leave even a little bit.

"Thanks, Phillip!" I say to him, as I go over to the table with my breakfast plate, feeling all grown up.

"Yeah, okay," he says, "Make sure you put everything away when you're done."

As I sit at the table, eating what might just be the Best Scrambled Eggs Ever, I'm thinking about those chickens and about my little brother, Greg.  These chickens, they have such a quick life.  We are so lucky to have them for their eggs and then later, for roast chicken dinners.  In the amount of time it has taken them to grow from an egg to being dinner, my baby brother is still just a baby and still needs all of us.  Even I still need help from my big brother, and I'm Twelve.  It's pretty neat how that works for people, for my family, for me.  I'm so lucky.  I hardly had any eggshells in my breakfast, and I made it all myself.

Road Trip

Summertime and dad finally has some days off, so we're going to visit my cousins.  The house is full of action this Saturday morning as Dad gets the car ready, Mom gets the food and little ones ready, and they both direct all the rest of us kids to get ready. I am so excited, I already have my bag packed with my bathing suit, pj's, toothbrush, and a change of clothes.  I swing it around over my head as I run through the house, excited to be on the move, and accidentally smack Paul with it.

"Hey, smarten up!" he says, irritated, and tries to grab my bag out of my hands.

"Stop it!  Leave my bag alone!"

Taller and faster than me, he grabs the bag out of my hands and swings it around, holding it just out of reach over my waving arms.

"Give it back!  Mom, Paul's got my bag!" I cry, clearly the injured party now.

"Go outside and run around, both of you!  Right NOW!"

Mom has stopped what she's doing to glare at us both.  She is clearly exasperated with us; we don't have to be told twice.  Paul tosses my bag back over, actually past me, muttering something under his breath, and I pick it up from the floor and check that things are okay.  Hmmph, everything's all scrunched up now. Brothers can  be such a pain.

I head outside to where Dad is busy loading up the station wagon.  I love this car because it has a third row seat that looks out the back window.  I don't usually get to sit back there though, unless not everyone is going - my older brothers take that seat.  Just like the school bus, the big kids get to sit in the back - it's an unwritten rule.  I give Dad my bag and he puts it on the pile with the rest of the stuff we are bringing.  It looks like we're not ready to go quite yet.

Its still early on Saturday morning, the sky is blue and it's a wonderful day with a road trip to look forward to.  The drive to our cousins in Minaki is a few hours along a windy road, and there's lots to look at out the window, if you get a window seat.  If you're the one in the middle then you'd better have a good book.  I look for something to do while I'm waiting, and see Phillip and Paul over on the swing set doing chin ups.  That looks like fun!  I run over to join them, and stand there watching.

"Can I have a turn?" I ask, as Phillip drops to the ground.

"No, Paul was here first," he says, as Paul reaches up and Phillip hoists him up to the bar.

Paul's arms are stretched all the way out as he makes a big face and grunts his way up to the bar, feet dangling below.

"One...twwwoo...thrrreee..ugh..ffffour...argh..fiiiiive..." Paul counts out as his skinny arms manage to hoist his body up and down and up again and again.  He's so skinny, I can't imagine it could be THAT hard.

"Can I try, can I go next?" I ask again, now that it looks like Paul's fading.  I move closer and start reaching up to the bar, jumping to see if my hands even get close to it, but Paul's not ready to stop yet.

"Get out of the way!  You're bothering my chin-ups! Stop bugging me and wait your turn!"

Paul is frustrated with me and he lets me know it, trying to scissor kick over to me and I back away, just out of reach.  He drops to the ground as his hands give out from all that extra movement, and as he gets up from the ground, I can tell I'm in trouble.  I head off running over to the car, screeching all the way as he gains on me.  I make it once around the car with Paul roaring after.  Just as he's closing in on me, Dad straightens up.  Somehow we both missed seeing him there amid all the stuff.  He's got a look on his face that says he means business.  I screech to a stop, ready to defend my position if I need to.

"Paul!  Leave your sister alone!"

"But she was bugging me on the swings!  I didn't do anything!"

"That's enough now! Go into the house and into your room; we'll come and get you when it's time to go!"

Paul shoots me an angry look, and I'm relieved he's going into the house.  I know I'm going to be in trouble for that later though.

I go back over to the swings, but there's no-one else there now and I can't reach all the way up to the bar on my own.  I settle for sitting on the swing, and it feels like someone's just let the air out of a tire; things are a little bit flat.  It's not as much fun by yourself.

Soon the car is packed and ready.  I find a spot in the middle seat beside Thomas, and mom calls back over to us to make sure we've all remembered to pack toothbrushes.  Then, out the driveway and we're on the road!  Thomas has let me sit beside the door this time, so the window is down and I'm resting on my elbow, watching my town go by, looking for my friends houses.  Soon we're through town, through the train underpass and driving along Lake of the Woods.  There are lots of boats out on the water already.

Every once and a while I can sneak a look at Tom's book and read over his shoulder, but he turns the pages too quickly for me.  It's hard to read Tintin from too far away because the speech bubbles are so small, and some of the words are so big, but it's fun to look at the pictures.  I like his Asterix comics the best, although those are hard to read, too.  We're on the Minaki highway now, away from the big lake and winding through many smaller ones.  We go past fields of horses and cows, past lakes and through forests.  It's a great day for a car ride.  I can really smell the pine trees as the air heats them up.  The wind is warm and I close my eyes.

Mom and Dad are chatting in the front seat and I hear Mom say with a laugh, "It's awfully quiet in here, are we missing someone?"

Just like a deer in the headlights, my eyes pop open and my head swings around, taking in everyone in the car in one movement.  I know right away what's wrong.

"Paul!  It's Paul!  We forgot him at home!"

In all the hullabaloo of packing up and getting ready and, finally, leaving, we had forgotten to go and get Paul when we left.  I can hardly believe it.  What will we do now? Will we turn around and go home?  This is worse than the time when no-one came to pick me up after Brownies in the church basement and I had to wait outside in the dark for hours until they missed me at dinner and Dad had to drive all the way back into town to get me.

"We're almost there," Dad calms Mom, "We can phone from Con and Marg's place and make sure he's okay.  Claudette can watch him until tomorrow when we're home."

Poor Paul.  I feel so bad that I got him into trouble, and now he's stuck at home all by himself.  I can't think of anything worse than that.  Still, I can't help but feel a little happy that he won't be around to get me back for getting him in trouble.  And, I'm sure he'll be able to find something to do... !