i think this is what’s known as “stacking” ??
not only did i put the warm laundry on the kitty to increase his joy quotient but then i put the cold eggs from the refrigerator INTO the laundry heap to warm them slightly for baking purposes
#eggs
Amazing Chicken Eggs A Lot #chicken #chickeneggs #eggs #harvest #animals...
https://youtube.com/shorts/qey11dj2usY?si=yfvw_3bvvXVMT2MY
The Love Life of Chickens
The Love Life of Chickens
Leo died, suddenly, in the night. He was missed by many, and openly mourned by his mother, a tiny hen, with an absurd bonnet for a comb, who spent the day making the loud, anguished noises she had last produced when her entire set of chicks was eaten by a badger. Leo, survivor of a much earlier brood, had been a fine cockerel: somewhat short and stout, but perky, and immaculate in appearance. A reliable sort, he would keep an eagle eye out for kites, shouting the alarm and bunching his hens together while he stood protectively in front of them. Moreover, he had a gentlemanly approach to females, waiting until they had eaten before he jumped on them, and sometimes searching out delicacies – strawberries, slugs – to reward them.
It was a generally happy flock, under Leo’s wing. But there was one chicken who was not happy. He was another cockerel, known, for some reason, as Inch, and life had been weighted against him from the start. He was born in the days when the flock still had two bare-necked hens; a rather rare breed of chicken, since it does exactly what it says on the tin. These hens had originally been smuggled into a clutch of eggs by a neighbour, as a joke: seeing their long, pink, wizened necks sticking out of ample heaps of puffy black plumes, it was almost impossible not to think of vultures and, in winter, of snoods.
The bare-necks were, however, charming and maternal characters, of whose benign tolerance Leo took full advantage, and the result, one day, was an extremely strange chick. For a few days it was a fairly normal black and white Leghorn, like its father. Then it suddenly sprouted a tiny, skinny, bare neck. And then, just as everyone was hoping it was not a cockerel, it produced a sad clump of feathers, at the front of its neck, and about half way up. This was obviously its attempt at Leo’s proud, leonine ruff, but it was not a success. It looked, in fact, like a badly tied cravat; or a miniature, moth-eaten boa.
From then on, Inch developed rapidly, but not in a good way. He grew tall, for a cockerel, to be fair, but most of him consisted of legs and (bare) neck, with a shambolic mash of plumage in between. When he finally emerged from adolescence, still with his mangy cravat, and topped off by a flamboyant, poppy-red comb, he looked even more peculiar. Permanently under attack from an outraged Leo, and scorned by every right-thinking hen, his attempts at passion consisted of running frantically at unsuspecting females from behind, and trying to do the deed before they noticed. Their subsequent squawks of horror would alert his father, who would round the corner, eyes blazing: the main view of Inch, in the early years, was of a fleeing bottom, propelled by agitated, stilt-like strides.
Fortunately, chicken sex is in any case a brief, torrid affair – ten seconds would be positively tantric – and so, occasionally, Inch had his moment. Once in a while, one of the less confident hens would even start to hang around with him. ‘Oh, Inch has got a girlfriend’ people would remark, in a pleased way, but it never lasted. Quite apart from his appearance, his personal hygiene was non-existent, and his eating habits appallingly selfish; worse, his nerves were those of a hysterical diva, which made it wearing just to share the same field. Within a week the hen would be back in Leo’s harem, and Inch would be back to lurking in bushes, alone.
Then the four rescued battery hens arrived. They had spent the long car journey to their new home clucking and crooning with lively interest in the back: their pallid, featherless state caused some concern, but set against that were the four large eggs which rolled out of the box after them. They were put into a small run next to the main coop, lavished with corn and yoghurt and garlic and cheese and madeira cake, and left to settle in.
It was a week or so before Inch discovered them. He was first seen peering at them intently from about three feet away; a phase which lasted for several days. It could have gone on for ever, but battery hens are, despite all odds, the most curious, friendly creatures imaginable. Inch, finding that, instead of bolting for cover, they were cooing at him with every appearance of enthusiasm, grew emboldened. Soon, he was swaggering up und down in front of them, chest out and pawing the ground, while the batteries clucked back through the wire, greatly impressed. Of course, they had never seen a cockerel before.
And when they were eventually released into the wider world, Inch was in heaven. The battery hens’ many good qualities evidently included loyalty: they were his constant companions, and cheerfully available at all times. Even Leo seemed to approve of this new arrangement, and left them all alone. Admittedly, Inch’s personal habits still left much to be desired, and nor did the batteries’ calm aplomb initially rub off – he would still scream and run around like a headless version at any opportunity. But there came a day when, quite decisively, his hens decided to take him in hand.
‘What is Inch doing?’ someone remarked one morning. And there, in front of the kitchen window, where the other chickens would congregate in the hope of getting grapes, was Inch. Normally he would be dithering behind the fuchsias. Instead, he was standing stock still, while on either side of him, a battery hen was assiduously grooming his neglected and, frankly, grubby plumage. They were working with a fussy and intent air, just like a mother getting out a tissue and rubbing at her child’s face before a party. As they got further and further up his neck, Inch jerked his head away, then went back to bearing it nobly, and the analogy was exact.
This became a regular sight, with the battery hens taking turns at it and, while Inch would never look handsome, he certainly looked cared for. So everything in the garden was rosy, until Leo fell off his perch.
Being the sole male among a dozen females went straight to Inch’s head. He spent the first few weeks leaping on every hen at random, neglecting the battery hens like a playboy in the process. Unlike his father, who was invariably the first out of the coop, checking for predators, he had always been a late riser – now, he was worse. An unconvincing crow would be heard at about eight, followed by a long period of restful silence, after which, once everyone else had emerged, Inch would appear and head straight off to stuff his face with corn; and any hen in sight with gusto.
And then, suddenly, his mojo seemed to sputter. He started to stand around, rather haplessly, as though overwhelmed by choice, or exhaustion. The battery hens seemed to bear him no real grudges but nor, it was noticeable, were they sticking beside him: in fact, the whole flock had begun to roam far and wide, in a rather pointedly self-sufficient manner. Nor, which was also remarkable, were the battery hens grooming Inch any more. His tail began to droop; his plumage lost its sheen: he began to spend his days either trailing after small groups of hens, who ignored him, or wandering aimlessly, like a lost poet, on his own in the shrubbery.
This rather miserable state of affairs lasted for months. Until this morning, actually, when someone came back from the chicken coop with the excited news that Inch had, for the first time, been the first one out of the door. What sign this delivered to the hens, or what personal epiphany it represented, is anyone’s guess. But by this afternoon, all the chickens had gathered together again, reunited, to the annoyance of the sheep, in the sheep hut. Inch was in the middle of this warm collection of feathers, tail up, bare neck extended, comb raised high. And, on either side of him, two ex battery hens were carefully grooming his wings.
🍳 Light yet strong material inspired by egg whites can cool devices faster
https://techxplore.com/news/2025-12-strong-material-egg-whites-cool.html
#materials #eggs #biomimetics #engineering #cooling #thermal #technology
The Love Life of Chickens
The Love Life of Chickens
Leo had died, suddenly, in the night. He was missed by many, and openly mourned by his mother, a tiny hen, with an absurd bonnet for a comb, who spent the day making the loud, anguished noises she had last produced when her entire set of chicks was eaten by a badger. Leo, survivor of a much earlier brood, had been a fine cockerel: somewhat short and stout, but perky, and immaculate in appearance. A reliable sort, he would keep an eagle eye out for kites, shouting the alarm and bunching everyone together while he stood protectively in front of them. Moreover, he had had a gentlemanly approach to his hens, waiting until they had eaten before he jumped on them, and sometimes searching out delicacies – strawberries, slugs – to reward them.
It was a generally happy flock, under Leo’s wing. But there was one chicken who was not happy. He was another cockerel, known, for some reason, as Inch, and life had been weighted against him from the start. He was born in the days when the flock still had two bare-necked hens; a rather rare breed of chicken, since it does exactly what it says on the tin. These hens had originally been smuggled into a clutch of eggs by a neighbour, as a joke: seeing their long, pink, wizened necks sticking out of ample heaps of puffy black plumes, it was almost impossible not to think of vultures and, in winter, of snoods.
The bare-necks were, however, charming and maternal characters, of whose benign tolerance Leo took full advantage, and the result, one day, was an extremely strange chick. For a few days it was a fairly normal black and white Leghorn, like its father. Then it suddenly sprouted a tiny, skinny, bare neck. And then, just as everyone was hoping it was not a cockerel, it produced a sad clump of feathers, at the front of its neck, and about half way up. This was obviously its attempt at Leo’s proud, leonine ruff, but it was not a success. It looked, in fact, like a badly tied cravat; or a miniature, moth-eaten boa.
From then on Inch developed rapidly, but not in a good way. He grew tall, for a cockerel, to be fair, but most of him consisted of legs and (bare) neck, with a shambolic mash of plumage in between. When he finally emerged from adolescence, still with his mangy cravat, and topped off by a flamboyant, poppy-red comb, he looked even more peculiar. Permanently under attack from an outraged Leo, and scorned by every right-thinking hen, his attempts at passion consisted of running frantically at unsuspecting females from behind, and trying to do the deed before they noticed. Their subsequent squawks of horror would alert his father, who would round the corner, eyes blazing: the main view of Inch, in the early years, was of a fleeing bottom, propelled by agitated, stilt-like strides.
Fortunately, chicken sex is in any case a brief, torrid affair – ten seconds would be positively tantric – and so, occasionally, Inch had his moment. Once in a while, one of the less confident hens would even start to hang around with him. ‘Oh, Inch has got a girlfriend’ people would remark, in a pleased way, but it never lasted. Quite apart from his appearance, his personal hygiene was non-existent, his eating habits appallingly selfish, and his nerves those of a hysterical diva, which made it wearing just to share the same field. Within a week the hen would be back in Leo’s harem, and Inch would be back to lurking in bushes, alone.
Then the four rescued battery hens arrived. They had spent the long car journey to their new home clucking and crooning with lively interest in the back: their pallid, featherless state caused some concern, but set against that were the four large eggs which rolled out of the box after them. They were put into a small run next to the main coop, lavished with corn and yoghurt and garlic and cheese and madeira cake, and left to settle in.
It was a week or so before Inch discovered them. He was first seen peering at them intently from about three feet away; a phase which lasted for several days. It could have gone on for ever, but battery hens are, despite all odds, the most curious, friendly creatures imaginable. Inch, finding that, instead of bolting for cover, they were cooing at him with every appearance of enthusiasm, grew emboldened. Soon, he was swaggering up und down in front of them, chest out and pawing the ground, while the batteries clucked back through the wire, greatly impressed. Of course, they had never seen a cockerel before.
And when they were eventually released into the wider world, Inch was in heaven. The battery hens’ many good qualities evidently included loyalty: they were his constant companions, and cheerfully available at all times. Even Leo seemed to approve of this new arrangement, and left them all alone. Admittedly, Inch’s personal habits still left much to be desired, and nor did the batteries’ calm aplomb initially rub off – he would still scream and run around like a headless version at any opportunity. But there came a day when, quite decisively, his hens decided to take him in hand.
‘What is Inch doing?’ someone remarked one morning. And there, in front of the kitchen window, where the other chickens would congregate in the hope of getting grapes, was Inch. Normally he would be dithering behind the fuchsias. Instead, he was standing stock still, while on either side of him, a battery hen was assiduously grooming his neglected and, frankly, grubby plumage. They were working with a fussy and intent air, just like a mother getting out a tissue and rubbing at her child’s face before a party. As they got further and further up his neck, Inch jerked his head away, then went back to bearing it nobly, and the analogy was exact.
This became a regular sight, with the battery hens taking turns at it and, while Inch would never look handsome, he certainly looked cared for. So everything in the garden was rosy, until Leo fell off his perch.
Being the sole male among a dozen females went straight to Inch’s head. He spent the first few weeks leaping on every hen at random, neglecting the battery hens like a playboy in the process. Unlike his father, who was invariably the first out of the coop, checking for predators, he had always been a late riser – now, he was worse. An unconvincing crow would be heard at about eight, followed by a long period of restful silence, after which, once everyone else had emerged, Inch would appear and head straight off to stuff his face with corn; and any hen in sight with gusto.
And then, suddenly, his mojo seemed to fail him. He started to stand around, rather haplessly, as though overwhelmed by choice, or exhaustion. The battery hens seemed to bear him no real grudges but nor, it was noticeable, were they sticking beside him: in fact, the whole flock began to roam far and wide, in a rather pointedly self-sufficient manner. And nor, which was even more remarkable, were the battery hens grooming Inch any more. His tail began to droop; his plumage lost its sheen: he spent his days either trailing after small groups of hens, who ignored him, or wandering aimlessly, like a lost poet, on his own in the shrubbery.
This rather miserable state of affairs lasted for months. Until this morning, actually, when someone came back from the chicken coop with the excited news that Inch had, for the first time, been the first one out of the door. What sign this delivered to the hens, or what personal epiphany it represented, is anyone’s guess. But by this afternoon, all the chickens had gathered together again, reunited, to the annoyance of the sheep, in the sheep hut. Inch was in the middle of this warm collection of feathers, tail up, bare neck extended, comb raised high. And, on either side of him, two ex battery hens were carefully grooming his wings.
»Herr E., sie haben 25 Kilo abgenommen, ihr Sauerstoffgehalt im Blut und Ihr Cholesterin haben sich normaliert ...«
Alles klar, #Frühstück der #Champions 🍽️
#PrivateParts #baccon #Eggs #Backhaus #butter #GoettingerTageblatt #saturday #InternationalCriminalCourt
Eggs
Here is an egg joke for Open Mentions that my smart home device just told me:
Why don’t eggs tell each other jokes? Because if they do, they crack each other up.
#eggs
Ăn trứng thường xuyên không làm tăng đường huyết vì trứng chứa ít carbohydrate và đường, đồng thời giàu protein và chất dinh dưỡng, phù hợp cho người kiểm soát glucose. #SứcKhỏe #Health #BloodSugar #BloodGlucose #Eggs #Trứng #DinhDưỡng #Nutrition #LowCarb #ĂnUống.
These Super Addictive Gochujang Garlic Eggs Will Change Your LIFE! https://youtu.be/qJTNBGG9FrU?si=Y0zUk7SqxnOd5fol
National Eggnog Day.
#eggnog #christmas #holidays #holiday #holidayseason #merrychristmas #latte #gingerbread #xmas #dessert #food #christmastime #santa #egg #mocha #christmastree #love #cookies #rum #tistheseason #eggs #homemade #supportlocal #yummy #icecream #foodie #coffee #happyholidays #fall #shoplocal
https://itsmostamazingindia.wordpress.com/2025/12/24/national-eggnog-day/
Why my mum’s scotch eggs are my Twixmas essential https://www.theguardian.com/food/2025/dec/23/why-my-mums-scotch-eggs-are-my-twixmas-essential-jimi-famurewa #Christmasfoodanddrink #Lifeandstyle #Christmas #Snacks #Food #Eggs
Scientific Diet Whiplash - Chris Masterjohn with Joe Rogan
Great altman explainer #eggs #moreperfectunion https://youtu.be/l0K4XPu3Qhg?si=cIH5O6WqR7cdTEyG
FSSAI dismisses cancer risk claims linked to eggs, saying reports are misleading and unsupported by science https://english.mathrubhumi.com/news/india/eggs-safe-consumption-cancer-risk-claims-misleading-fssai-x2wqm512?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=mastodon #FSSAI #Eggs #Science #Cancer
CFS as food studies matchmaker? Yep! We’re putting together a book review and a memoir for your weekend reading pleasure…
https://doi.org/10.15353/cfs-rcea.v1i2.57
What are the true costs of an industrial food system? How can we get a better perspective by taking both an insider and outsider look at farming?
Try pairing Rita Hansen Sterne’s review of Farmageddon: The True Cost of Cheap Meat by (Philip Lymbery and Isabel Oakeshott) with poet and journalist Brian Brett’s Trauma Farm: A Rebel History of Rural Life.
While the former unpacks cheap meat, the latter takes us to small, mixed farm on Salt Spring Island (BC). But should you name an animal you are going to eat? Brett’s solution is to give them all interchangeable names, rather than assign one to each individual. His pigs go by Bacon, Eggs, and Toast.
Bonne lecture!
#FoodStudies
#FoodBooks
#CanadianLiterature
#IndustrialFood
#AgriFood
#FactoryFarming
#Farming
#Pork
#Pigs
#Bacon
#Eggs
#Toast
#Farmaggedon
#PhilipLymery
#IsabelOakeshott
#BrianBrett
17.12.25
From Haneen:
"Today we bought eggs
It costs 28 shekels, or $8.70"
📷 by Naeema
It was thanks to your help that Haneen & Naeema's family could afford eggs – please help if you can so they can eat, buy clothes to get warm and get Elias his new glasses:
🥚 https://gofund.me/e8e853a83
[Rapha]
Trứng và sức khỏe tim mạch: Ăn trứng có tốt không?
Trứng giàu protein, vitamin, chất béo lành mạnh và chất chống oxy hóa. Ăn điều độ (khoảng 1 quả/ngày) không làm tăng cholesterol xấu ở người khỏe mạnh, thậm chí còn tăng HDL (cholesterol tốt). Nên luộc, hấp, nấu chín nhẹ; tránh chiên nhiều dầu hay ăn kèm thịt chế biến. Trứng nguyên quả an toàn và có lợi khi ăn hợp lý trong chế độ cân bằng.
#Eggs #HeartHealth #Nutrition #Cholesterol #Sức_khỏe_tim_mạch #Dinh_dưỡng #Trứng #Chế_độ_ăn_uống
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