The clucky hen and her two foster chicks.
The age-old question of 'what comes first, the chicken or the egg', popped up at our place recently.
I've written before about our flock of chickens, and the hen that turned out to be a rooster.
That rooster was bought in a brood of five chickens. He was the first to start crowing. The second one started soon after.
We found a home for one, because the roosters were fighting and the poor hens were being harassed a bit too much.
On the weekend a third one started crowing. A couple of my grandchildren kept telling me she was a he. 'No, it couldn't be', I thought. Why would he crow weeks after the first one started?
Then the fourth one started. We decided we must have got chickens from two different broods, some older than the others. Anyway, what are the chances of that? Four out of five is bad.
Now, getting back to the chicken and the egg.
When the first rooster started crowing, he also started 'paying attention' to the hens. I did some research (thanks, Google) and found out how to tell if your eggs have been fertilised.
The site said: "When you crack open the egg, if it's fertile, you'll notice a small white spot on the top of the yolk about 4mm in width."
Rightio. The next morning, as Mr Neat was cracking eggs into a pan for his breakfast, I was hovering behind him.
Sure enough — both of them had little white dots in the centre. Amazing. Problem was, we didn't have a clucky hen.
However, my friend did. So we hatched a plan.
We decided I would bring some eggs to work, and she would take them home and put them under her clucky hen.
This hen had already hatched five foster chicks the summer before.
However, this was the middle of winter. I collected the eggs from the night before and took them to work.
My friend said, "Have you kept them warm?"
"No," I replied. "In fact, there was a frost yesterday morning."
"Mmmmm..." she said. "I don't think this is going to work."
We also could not be sure that all the five eggs I gave her had been fertilised.
We decided to give it a crack anyway. Off the eggs went, to the clucky hen. It was dark by the time my friend got home, so she poked them under the hen, thinking she would end up with rotten eggs.
The next day, I counted 21 days ( that's how long it takes for the eggs to hatch) on my calendar and put a big circle around the birth day.
Day 21 came and went. My friend said, "I'll just wait a couple of days."
The next evening I get a text: "You are a mother! Ring me".
My friend got home in the dark, went to feed her chickens, and was stunned to hear little chicks chirping. Torchlight revealed three cracked eggs - one didn't survive, but the other two appeared healthy.
Inside the garage they went, to a makeshift pen my friend made out of her mother's beautifully carved camphor box.
She was worried about stray cats coming in the cat door, so wire netting was stapled into the box. Sorry friend's mum, but needs must.
She kept them safe until we picked two little cute, almost white chicks (their dad is white), along with the clucky hen, at the weekend.
So I have the answer for 'what comes first, the chicken or the egg' — at least, for two people. For me it was the egg, and for my friend it was the chicken.
Isn't Mother Nature just grand? She would be even grander if she were to give me two hens.
Linda Hall is assistant editor of Hawke's Bay Today