chicken coop

One excessively rainy Saturday early this spring, Tim and I set off in muck boots and rain gear to move the chickens. The chickens cycle through the fields throughout the year, moving every few weeks to new pecking ground. Early this spring, the farm had two separate flocks. The youngest flock, about seventy chickens, lived in the Ski Coop, so called because it's mounted on skis for easy (ish) dragging around. The older flock, about twenty or so chickens, lived in the rustic gem to the left. It's been used on the farm for about a decade.

And, in this excessive downpour, I discovered that to move this coop, you have to take it all apart. Lift off the roof, cut the twine that ties the four sides together, move all the parts, and then tie them back together. Then move the racoon-proofing chicken wire and bricks. I was rather surprised that the farm has been doing this every few weeks for the last ten years--and quickly became even more excited that Tim has built a new one.

The framework takes shape on top of the boat trailer 

Meet the mobile coop!

The master builder, Tim! 

Tim was the master planner and builder behind it all and, because side projects like this always take second place to actual farming, it became our weekend pet. The coop is framed on top of an old boat trailer, so the tractor can haul it from field to field. Nesting boxes run all along one side, with little doors for easy egg access; there is enough roosting space for 120 hens, a narrow pathway down the middle for walking inside, and plenty of ventilation.

With siding, the coop looks like a little house! We were tempted to hook it up to Bertha and take off...

Tin roofing goes up

Most of the flooring is hardware cloth; this walkway is for ease of cleaning and inside access.

Matt and Steph, our star painters! 

I said "it must be red!" 

The final painted coop

My excitement is not purely selfish happiness that I never have to take apart that dreadful collapsable coop again (although that is some of it). No, most of my excitement has been watching it take shape from stacks of plywood and graph paper sketches and long, imaginative brainstorming sessions—through lengthening spring evenings of working with Tim after work to pound nails, measure chicken wire, draw up plans for nesting boxes, and battle with chicken staples—to grow into a coop. I'm honestly a little sad that it's finished, the building was so delightful.

But the chickens aren't sad: Now, about one month after its launch into the fields, the flock's egg production has reached record highs—an average of 65 eggs per day! The spike is partly due to summer, but also because the nesting space has gone from two nesting boxes to thirteen. And the farmstand still sells out!

The chickens made themselves at home right away...

The nesting box doors flip open for easy egg access; the chickens get their own door! 

The chicken palace in its first field

bounty

For most of the spring, we ate lettuce. I love farm lettuce—devoured right there in the field, crispy and sweet off the stock; or drizzled with a little olive oil and balsamic; or wilted with pasta. But we ate a lot of lettuce. 

Now that it's July, though, the farm is starting to kind of explode with a bounty that makes me feel a little frantic. Pick! Eat! Pickle! Experiment! The bounty also makes me feel deliciously happy and summery--the first night we strolled the farm in this new season of plenty (more than a few weeks ago now), I almost cried. We stumbled back to the farmhouse trying to juggle fennel, broccoli, turnips, peas, beets, and more lettuce, hungry for our veggie feast even after our cherry, raspberry, and blueberry appetizers out in the fields. We've roasted, sautéed, and pickled the beets and radishes; diced the fennel in salads; roasted the broccoli with just a sprinkle of salt and pepper; folded roast  turnips into enchiladas; and crunched peas plain. 

Our herb garden keeps on chugging along too; last weekend, I spiced some canned tomato sauce with fresh-chopped rosemary and oregano for a pizza that (topped with fresh chèvre that our new goat-dairy-owning friends gave Tim after he spent a day working with them) was fairly revolutionary.  

The bounty is ever-changing, and we're already saying goodbye to peas (although I really feel like I was just getting to know them, to enjoy the juicy bursts of shell peas in pasta, to savor the crunch of snap peas sautéed in butter and mint) and hello to summer squash. We celebrated the first zucchini last weekend shaved and smeared with an easy almond-parmesan pesto, and the first yellow summer squash today sliced thin and dressed up with chopped basil and mint. 

One of the interns just put up a CARROTS sign out on the road and I hear rumors that the first tomatoes will blaze onto the dinner (and lunch and breakfast) scene in two weeks. 

I think the richness of this season is compounded by the waiting of spring--the rain, the watching of things growing, the eating of kale and lettuce, the dreaming of summer. Remind me of this next winter!