The chicken that laid the golden egg

Well, it finally happened.  Chicky Rivera laid an egg.  I couldn't have been more proud if I had laid it myself. I have a new affection for her, which I certainly did not have previously.  Let's just say, she is a bitch.  Don't get me wrong.  I love bitches.  Show me a sarcastic smack talking woman and I will show you my new best friend.  Chicky Rivera is just plain mean.  

When poor little Kyle the Rooster tries to eat, she comes out of nowhere and tries to rip his feathers out.  When I feed him separately she will come out of nowhere again and chase him away.  He backs down every time.  She is a bully. Kyle doesn't stand a chance of ever being the dominant bird in this brood. I now have a visual definition of the term, "pecking order."

I named her Chicky Rivera because she is really beautiful and pretty flashy looking. She reminded me of Chita Rivera.

I probably should have named her Sarah Palin though because even though she is pretty and tough, she is mean and a little bit dumb.  

I see my new found love of Chicky as a life lesson.  If I could learn to love this nasty bird maybe I could learn to love some of the people I don't like.  Maybe I could learn to love Sarah Palin?  I bet if you get a few drinks in Sarah she is a lot of fun.  She certainly knows how to make snarky remarks.  Although, not so sure if she has the wittiness for sarcasm.  Plus, there is the whole hatred of gays and that lying thing she does so...probably only if she lays me an egg too.

Anyway, I digress. I was watching Chicky last week and she kept pausing from her constant pecking to sit down.  She was looking a little uncomfortable.  I recognized that look.  I had it myself on many an occasion throughout my three pregnancies.  She was about to lay an egg.  Low and behold, I found her in her nesting box a few days later sitting on an egg!  

I screamed for the boys who came running outside.  Prince took a picture of me holding the egg.  Scrappy Doo was praising Chicky up and down. James Dean begged to hold the warm little brown egg himself.  Just as I handed it to him while saying, "Be careful" he promptly dropped it on the floor and then promptly burst into tears.  I console him and tell him we can just scrape it up off the floor and cook it up right then and there.  He calms down and I quickly throw the egg away while he is not looking and scramble one up from the carton of eggs in the fridge.  

The boys all gather around, looking at the plate like they were staring at a golden egg.  Frankly, with the amount of money we spent to produce that egg ( the one in the trash; not on the plate)  it is probably worth more than a golden egg.  They each have a little taste and declare it the best scrambled egg they have ever eaten.  If only I could get them to feel that way about the homegrown chard.