Fairy farts with a side of kale

A life and times update from the Smart Coop

When chickens become a part of your life, it’s a never-ending mix of joy, concern, laughter, and a whole lot of “What the heck just happened?!” A few weeks ago, I had one of those head-scratchers when I went out to feed the flock their royal breakfast – a hearty mix of warm brown rice, kale, corn, peas, and leftover chicken bones from the previous night’s dinner.

I’m sure this menu raises a few eyebrows. Warm brown rice? Because it’s cold outside, and they sleep outside – I don’t. Corn and peas? Because chickens love them, and let’s be honest, they’re cheap. Leftover chicken bones? Because chickens are basically tiny, happy raptors with no moral objections to a little cannibalism. And kale? Well, there are exactly two ways to enjoy kale: one is when it’s drowning in heavy cream, floating in a bowl of sausage soup. The other? When chickens eat it and magically turn it into delicious eggs.

I was going about my business, laying out the grand buffet, when I noticed an eerie silence – like a horror movie right before the jump scare. While the elder hens looked on dispassionately, the girls – usually a stampede of feathered chaos – were just… standing there. No food fights, no frenzied pecking, none of the usual jockeying for Head-Chicken-in-Charge, just awkward side-eye and stiff-legged shuffling like a bunch of guilty toddlers caught with their wings in the cookie jar. Something was up.

One of the pullets – one of the summer recruits – looked especially bewildered. She stretched her neck, did an awkward little two-step, squatted like she suddenly forgot how chicken legs work, gave a dramatic feather ruffle, and – plop! – out popped a tiny, white, quarter-sized egg. It landed delicately on a bed of kale like some sort of farm-to-table masterpiece. Spell broken, she blinked, shuffled her feet again and then, with the casual grace of someone who most definitely meant to do that, wandered off to grab a snack.

The other Jr. Hens gawked at the tiny egg, shuffling around like they were witnessing a particularly intriguing magic trick. Then they joined in. Plop! Plop! Things were getting interesting.

The whole oops-I-just-laid-a-miniature-egg routine wasn’t necessarily unusual. Pullets the world over practice laying by producing fairy eggs (or fairy farts as we know them at the Smart Coop). What was unusual was their freestyle approach: laying them mid-stride, mid-flight, all over the coop, like they were setting up for a weird, mini-Easter egg hunt amongst the wilting kale.

Not that I was complaining. After all, we do expect some sort of rent payment from our feathered freeloaders. Egg production had been dire lately. The elder hens had unionized at the start of winter, unanimously voting to shut down Egg Operations indefinitely. One day, eggs. The next, nothing. Lights off, factory closed. Typical for the season, sure – but this time, they all stopped at once. A coordinated strike. Suspicious. And the pullets, to that point, were not picking up the slack.

For the uninitiated, pullets are hens that are less than a year old who haven’t begun to lay. They are basically, feathery middle schoolers trying to figure out how to chicken. This batch of additions was a broody fail. Gail, despite being over-the-top dramatic and defiantly broody, really wasn’t interested in doing the work when the time came. So, perhaps against our better judgement, we took on the role of chick-parents, raising them, keeping them warm until their feathers came in, and introducing them to the elder population. This time, we were the teachers. And let’s just say, it showed.

We had somehow managed to keep the new chicks alive for the first few months, and they’d mastered the basics – scratching, fluffering [my term], roosting – basically everything a chicken should do and where to do it… except one crucial thing. To be fair, I’m not exactly sure how I would have taught them the ancient art of strategic egg-laying, but these girls were clearly clueless. They were wandering the coop with a look of total confusion, dropping fairy farts wherever or whenever the urge took hold, and proving by the moment why broodies, despite their ghastly attitude, really are the more appropriate fowl parent.

A broody is a hen that wants to raise chicks – immediately, if not sooner. Before my first encounter with one, I asked some seasoned chicken keepers how I’d know if one of my hens was broody. The universal response? “Oh, you’ll know.” Always delivered with a knowing smirk, a half-laugh that screamed brace yourself for chaos. Any follow-up questions were usually met with cryptic chuckles and an abrupt subject change.

Fast forward: They were 100% correct, I knew. Even someone who had never been introduced to a chicken would know. They will sit on anything vaguely resembling an egg. They’re grumpy as a toddler denied candy and they rock a resting bitch face that would cut glass. They are laser-focused on motherhood, and if you dare cross their path, you’ll get a look that says, “I dare you to come any closer. Motherhood in progress.” Yet, oddly enough, despite their grumpy, tough-love vibes, they are the go-to for ensuring that pullets learn where and when a respectful hen lays down a fairy fart. Not from a standing position. Not while walking. And definitely, not on the breakfast buffet.

Later that morning, I greased up a pan to fry myself a 15-egg omelette made from the day’s mini rent payments and mulled over my coop lessons for the day. The elder hens had given me their signature judgmental stares, clearly mocking me with their “we would’ve done it better” vibe. Well, all except Gail, who was too busy doubling down on her decision to avoid any actual effort. All the drama, none of the work. Classic Gail.

I marveled at how a mini egg still has all the parts: mini-yolk, mini-white, mini-shell. It’s like an egg went on a diet but still wanted to keep up appearances. I briefly considered starting a business selling mini-McMeals to the world – same price as the original, naturally.

I pondered mothers and daughters, pullets and hens, roles and responsibilities, and lessons learned… for about five seconds. Then brushed all those deep thoughts aside. Chickens might not be the smartest tool in the shed, but they sure do keep things entertaining. And hey, at least I had a delicious breakfast of… processed kale and fairy farts. Living the dream.