Dear faithful bog readers:
Lately there has been some very bad press about a rooster on the City Chicken Farm. I'm here to clear that bit of libel up for everyone. My name is Milla, not Rusty. I am a girl chicken. Sure, I have an impressive comb and wattles, and sometimes I... ahem... crow a little bit, but making specific (and incorrect) assumptions about my gender is wrong. It's... genderist. I'm here to set the record straight. I would like to present chickens' exhibit A, otherwise known as "ha, ha, you were wrong."
There you have it, folks. This is indisputable evidence on my behalf. It took half a day to spit that sucker out, and I know it's a little under-sized, but I'm a very young pullet, so it stands to reason that my first eggs would be smallish.
You may not realize it, but the newer generations of chickens are under a lot of pressure these days. Laying eggs earlier is all the rage. I submit my experiences humbly and ask that you think before you begin labeling your chicks as "male" or "female." You cannot possibly fathom how it affects our psyche. Thank you,
Note from actual blog representative:
We think it actually came from Ingrid, which stands to reason after her latest escapades. More on that soon. In the meantime, it seemed equally logical to call this "Rusty's egg," his last ditch effort to save himself from the basting brush. You be the judge.
PS- He currently weighs 3 pounds 9 ounces, and is twelve weeks old. Recipes are welcome.