Gotterfunken

When we pulled up to the ranch in Belgrade, the ranchers were sitting on their porch waiting for us. A young couple with their toddler, they wore denim jackets and plaid shirts. Tan and strong, they resembled actors in a Chevy Trucks commercial. They had advertised healthy adult hens for 25 dollars each on Craig's List. We only had one chicken left, Molly, and she seemed lonely and pathetic.

What happened? In early July the sky opened up and hail the size of baseballs bombarded our chickens. All ran for cover but Schnitzel didn't make it in time.

Our remaining chickens suffered an unfortunate mishap with a dog who I will not name to protect her privacy. To her defense, her size may have contributed to the end result. Resembling a woolly mammoth more than a dog, she may in fact have been "playing" and unintentionally killed four chickens in three minutes, forty seconds.

We had come to Belgrade to start again. This was our chance at redemption: five new adult hens.

The ranchers led us to their chicken house, a concrete bunker with a wall of nesting boxes. Dusty, pungent and dimly lit, it was loud as a frat party. My eyes had to adjust to the low light. I noticed a nervous energy among the fowl, especially the roosters. They sensed trouble. One of them rushed at the rancher, spurs in the air.
"There he goes again!" he laughed. "We made his friend into a stew last week."

"How was it?" I asked.

"It didn't taste too good." He answered. "But he learned a lesson."

Apparently, the ranchers had to show these birds who was boss from time to time.

With the aid of a net on a long pole the rancher darted around catching hens for us. We choose a Buff Orpington, a Leghorn, a Wyandotte and a White Crested Polish. The rancher offered us a Red Cup hen with crooked feet for free. We accepted.

We hadn't brought a cage to transport them so the rancher gave us an old cardboard box. All the chickens fit inside, except the Buff, who I named "Fanny." The ranchers exchanged a look when I offered to let Fanny ride home in my lap.

When we opened the box in our yard, the chickens stepped out looking a little dazed from the journey. The White Crested Polish sprinted out like she was on fire and ran into a wall. She really couldn't see because her feathers covered her eyes. Griffin named her Gotterfunken, which means "Spark of G-d" in German.

The rancher had called our attention to her plight. It seemed the roosters had been plucking out the feathers from her head. Behind her skull she had a bald spot. We weren't just adopting this bird, we were saving her from rooster abuse. This was a rescue.

That evening, the hens followed Molly up the steps into their warm coop. Even Gotterfunken eventually found the entrance. They hopped up on their roost and closed their eyes. I dreamed about fresh eggs sizzling in a frying pan.



Texas Eggs

My father used to cook Texas Eggs for breakfast. It is a fried egg with a hat.

1 piece of whole wheat bread
1 egg
butter
salt and pepper

Cut a hole in the center of the bread. Save the round piece of bread. Butter the bread on both sides. Put a 1/2 teaspoon of butter in a frying pan and turn the heat to medium. When the butter melts, put the bread in the pan along with the bread circle. Carefully crack the egg into the hole in the center of the bread. Cook a few minutes and then flip it over. When you put the bread and egg on a plate, place the circle of bread on top of the egg. Serve with a generous dash of salt and pepper.