The Hens Arrived on a Wednesday

For years, my daughter asked for chickens. For years, I said no. This March, I finally said yes, mostly because I'd run out of reasons.

We built a coop from a kit in the backyard, which took three weekends and one argument about which way the roof went. On a Wednesday morning, we drove to a farm and came home with four hens in a cardboard box: a fluffy gray one, a reddish-brown one, a black one with green shimmer and a white one with feathered feet.

My daughter named them Pancake, Nugget, Midnight and Duchess. Duchess is in charge of everything.

I didn't expect to love them. But I do. They follow me around the yard like dogs. They run to the fence when they hear the back door. They make happy little humming sounds when they're scratching for bugs. Pancake likes to be held like a baby.

Two weeks ago, my daughter found the first egg. She carried it inside in both hands like it was made of gold. We fried it and split it four ways at the kitchen table. It was the best egg I've ever eaten.