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.