The backyard hens are finally laying, after being raised, with much care and amusement, from day old chicks. Wilhelmina, the Barnevelder, is an especially pretty bird, with gold flecks through her dark brown feathers and a quirky disposition. Narelle, the Australorp, is rather common-looking but a good layer. Daphne, the Light Sussex, is just fat and lazy and no less cool for it.

There were four birds at first, but Sheila, the Rhode Island Red, turned out a tad butch, and thus became the centrepiece of a marvellous roast dinner. The food chain can be so cruel. 

So for breakfast today, there is a batch of eggs of various sizes and shades boiling on the stove. Perhaps hens, like vines, take a while to produce predictable yields. I will have them plain, just sprinkled with salt perhaps, and savour the satisfaction of growing something myself.