My neighbor’s urban chickens are always running their beaks. After two years I finally got an omelet to show for it.
Last week, a 12-year-old boy knocked on my door holding a small container of brown eggs.
“They were laid today,” he said, handing over the loot, still speckled with black feathers and bird crap.
“Thanks,” I said. “I was in the mood for a good scrambly.”
He scurried away before I could ask him if his goose lays any golden eggs.