Meet Miss Minnie...our newest--and noisiest--addition to the farm! Minnie is an 8 week old Juliana mini pig, and she loves cuddling under the covers, rooting at the pillows (and anything else she comes across), and slurping down runny oatmeal.

But who doesn't? You outta hear her squealing with delight when I pour that runny stuff into her food bowl.

Or have you already? She is pretty loud at feeding time.

As soon as she sees me walk into the kitchen she starts squealing like a stuck pig, and then when she gets her food, she furiously shoves her snout down into it and starts making the loudest slurping sounds I have ever heard in my life.

Aside from when I get to the bottom of my Cree Mee drive-in marshmallow milkshake, that is.

But I try to only eat those in private...it's slightly embarrassing to do it in public.

​Minnie, on the other hand, has no shame.

Pigs. You can't live with them, and you can't live without them...

​

Unless your name is Thomas the Cat.

Tom isn't quite sure what to make of Minnie, but she sure likes him.

Join the crowd, Minnie. We all like Tom...he's a "cool cat" kind of kitty. Just be sure to give him some space...

And a kiss on the forehead every now and then.

Nobody could resist that!

And I hope I'm next.

​

My sweet Splash Orpington hen, Sheba, is so givin. And so reliable, too. No matter the weather, she lays a lovely sage green egg for me almost every day.

Today was was no exception, even though it was an exceptionally cold day--12 degrees was the high temp! And for some reason when it gets that cold, I have an uncontrollable urge to get outside and experience it.

Yep. I'm an odd duck.

An odd duck who love chickens. Which is why, in the freezing cold 12 degree weather, I was outside having an impromptu photo shoot with the queen of the coop, Sheba.

Well what else is there to do when it's that cold?

Oh...that's a good point you have there. Cuddling up on the couch in comfy pajamas snuggled under a cozy blanket and binge-watching the new season of The Crown certainly is another option.

And certainly a more normal option too. But the normal path isn't always the most common one we take around here.

​Take Will, for example. Today he played the part of photographer while wearing a t-shirt, karate pants, and house slippers. And while shivering and shaking so much it's unbelievable that the camera was able to focus.

For what it's worth, I did tell him to put on a coat, but for some reason he didn't take me seriously. Couldn't have been because at the time I happened to be dancing around the front yard holding a fresh egg in one hand and cradling a panic-struck chicken in the other while not-so-subtly practicing a few poses from my old modeling days. (Notice I said "days" and not "years"--It was a short-lived experience, mainly because I was too short for the experience!)

Anyhoo...You think he'd be used to this kind of stuff by now. Or maybe that's the problem.

Either way, he snapped a few photos as Sheba and I struck a few poses...

I call this Sheba's supermodel pose. She looked straight at the camera, cocked her neck, and stuck her chest out like she was ready for her close up, Mr. DeMille.
​

But she quickly lost interest, and I had to do a little sweet-talking to get her to keep going. "Aww, such a pretty girl, you're doin' such a good job, sweet little chicky, just look at the camera, you can do it...". You get the gist--all the normal things you say to your pet chicken during a routine photo shoot.
​

And this is the part of the photoshoot where I realized that I forgot to put on any makeup. Apparently I wasn't quite ready for my close-up. But Sheba was, so just focus your attention on her please. She looks stunning! Or stunned. One or the other...

​

Either way, Sheba's the queen of the coop, and no queen should be without a crown. And since I could almost technically be called the queen mother, I got a crown too.

​And then since it was freezing outside and our photographer could no longer feel his fingers, we called it quits and went our separate ways. Sheba scurried back into the coop and jumped into the cozy straw-filled nest box, and Will and I skedaddled back into the house and made ourselves a cup of Queen Elizabeth's favored East India Company Orange Pekoe tea, courtesy of my sister's recent trip to London.

And then I put on my comfy pajamas, curled up on the couch, snuggled under a cozy blanket, and started binge-watching the new season of The Crown.

See...I do occasionally do normal things.

Especially when it involves anything royal!

There's no limit to the crazy-looking creatures I surround myself with. Although for the record, I myself am not crazy-looking, and I'm certainly not just plain crazy.

If you know something different, just humor me, please. It does wonders for my ego.

​And I think my afternoon visit to the new hoop house-turned-chicken coop did wonders for these crazy-looking roosters...or maybe it was the cracked corn I scattered on the ground.

Either way, I'm taking all the credit for ​brightening up their day. And while I was taking all the credit, I took a few photos, too...​

This guy didn't quite know what to think when I sat down right in front of him--and right on top of the corn pile.

I think that sideways glance says it all. Something ​like, "Excuse me lady, you're sitting on my dinner."

I could see it in his eye...and I heard it in his voice as he let loose a loud "cock-a-doodle-doo" in a quietly irritated tone.
​

So I got to my feet and let the boys have at it. 

After all, I don't like it when somebody sits on my dinner either...or steps on my birthday cake just before my tenth birthday party, but clearly I've forgiven my sister for that unfortunate event.​

Clearly.  Although how she managed to step on my cake is beyond me, and why my mother decided the floorboard of the car was the best place to put the cake while we drove to the party at Grandma's house is beyond me too.

Oh boy.  There's just no way of knowing when these traumatic memories are going to pop up.​  Give me a minute while I try to shake this off...

Here--while I'm shaking, you watch the roosters scratching and pecking...​
​

Oh that was nice. (The roosters, I mean, not the reminiscing of the infamous cake-crushing incident.)

What's also nice is how well the roosters have cleaned up and cleared out this ground. You'd never know by looking at this area now, but it was a mess of overgrown grass and weeds just a few short weeks ago. ​
​

That was when my husband decided to actually build the hoop house, which is basically a plastic-covered tunnel that you plant a garden inside of in order to extend the growing season into the colder months.

He had it up in no time at all, and ​then it was time to figure out how to clear the ground and improve the soil inside.

That's where the roosters came in. These fellas were extras and not really needed for breeding purposes, so we thought we'd give them something else to do...like spend the winter in the nice warm hoop house, scratching and pecking up all the grass and the weed seeds, and fertilizing the soil at the same time.​

So far so good! Everybody's happy--the roosters are happy to have a project to work on, and my husband and I are happy that we don't have to work on that project. All we have to do is move those guys out before spring, till up the soil, and plant the seeds​.

And try move past the saga of our childhood.​

Or at least I do. And I'm fine now--really. I'm an adult. ​

And so is my sister, and despite that one accidental dessert-related disaster, she really is a lovely person. A lovely person who will still love me after reading this post, I'm sure of it. After all, I'm sure I did something equally as traumatic to her when we were growing up...although nothing seems to come to mind right now.

Oh well, I'll just pretend I was a perfect sister.  It suits that ego of mine just perfectly.​​

​

​

I really thought I was done hatching eggs for a while.

But really, I should know better than to actually voice that thought. Because just as soon as I said it out loud, I got an offer I couldn't refuse...from someone who in no way could have heard me make the actual statement, but who has a habit of randomly surprising me with offers I can never ever in any way even think about refusing.

And that's how I ended up with these...

I heard that gasp. I'll give you a moment to compose yourself...

Ready? Ok, these eggs are some of the darkest chicken eggs on the planet, delivered right into my hands straight from the coop of some of the most elite-ranking French Black Copper Marans chickens ever to roam the earth.

See why I couldn't turn them down? And you don't even want to know what these can sell for.

Or maybe you do, since I know that you and I tend to think alike. So think "three figures" with a dollar sign in front of them.

Yep. I said three. So no, I didn't fry them up for breakfast; I stuck them right into that very incubator that I had just previously decided to shut off.

I do make a smart move every now and then.

And now I have the possibility of hatching some very cute and fuzzy chicks out of these captivatingly chocolate brown eggs so that then I can raise them up to give me even more of these devilishly dark-shelled delights.

I know you can't see me right now, but I'm literally quivering with excitement...which is why I'm kind of glad you can't see me right now.

Apparently it's my turn to compose myself. And I'll get right on that...mainly so I can get right back to staring at the incubator. Gazing expectantly at that warm styrofoam box, eagerly anticipating the first faint peep and the first peek at the cute little creatures pecking their way out into the world is just too much to resist.

I'm not sure, but I may be slightly obsessed. I'm sure you'd never know it by looking at me...

​

This is as composed as I get. Especially when I'm holding extremely rare, deliciously dark, fantastically fertile eggs!

​

Simply incredible!

​

Yep. It's the roosters making all the noise. It seems being cloistered away with a few choice hens does wonders for their masculinity, and they have no problem letting the world know they are each finally ruling their very own roost...and procreating like crazy.

Sorry. I'll leave the chicken-breeding details to your imagination from now on. But I will say that it does happen to be the main event around here, and Oliver, my devastatingly handsome Olive Egger rooster, happens to be the top dog...or top cock, I guess.

Oh boy. Sorry again. It's a technical term, I promise.

Moving on...so Oliver belongs to a breed of chicken called Olive Egger, categorized by the ability to lay an egg with a olive green shell. And for those of you who are not so familiar with chicken-keeping, only the hens do this, not the roosters.

Your welcome. And just because Valentine's Day is rounding the bend, here's another helpful little tidbit: I love you.

Your welcome again. Apparently love is in the air...and in the coops.

Ahem. Soooo, Oliver is the product of a cross breeding between Chester Copperpot, my French Black Copper Marans Rooster, and Edie, one of my Easter Egger Hens. The Marans breed lays a dark brown egg, and the Easter Eggers eggs are blue-green. Crossing the breeds creates a bird that should produce an olive-colored egg, hence the name Olive Egger.

Makes sense, right? Well let me complicate it a bit more, because there's more than one way to skin a cat.

Wait, what?!! Where did that come from?!! Just for the record, I would never, ever skin a cat. Good grief! I should've gotten more sleep last night...but with all the roosters crowing at all hours of the night, sleeping happens to be a bit difficult right now.

Anyways...you can also get an Olive Egger by crossing any other dark brown egg-layer with any other blue or green egg-layer. Which is how I got Lib, Mag, and Ceycil, my Olive Egger hens. This trio (named for my locally infamous three "old maid" great-great aunts) are a combination of dark brown egg-laying Welsummers and blue egg-laying Cream Legbars.

My pretty zinnias just got more majestic.

A royal visit has that effect sometimes, especially when it's from a monarch like the one ​Will pointed  out to me the other day.  He noticed it fluttering around the zinnia patch despite the crazy winds one afternoon, and he knew exactly what it meant...
 ​

The Monarch caterpillars had morphed! 

We spotted this fella several days before in the most unexpected place--on the Bronze Fennel plant.  

I didn't know they liked to eat Bronze Fennel.  Or maybe he was just after that fly perched on top of the flower head...

Nah, I'm pretty sure monarchs are vegetarians. 

Anyway, we were surprised to see him there because just across the yard is a patch of milkweed, which from what we understood, is their favorite plant to munch on.  Yet there were no caterpillars at all on the milkweed. 
​​​​

But they were all over the fennel. 

In fact, they weren't the only ones on the fennel.  It was a hot spot of activity that day...
​​

There were Mud Daubers...
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Honeybees...
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A spider eating a fly...

Hey, I wonder if that was the same fly I saw earlier...

Okay, let's not dwell on him.  Here's somebody else to dwell on...
​​​

Or at least keep an eye on--a red wasp.    Eek!  This fella might even merit a few prayers for safety.
​

Looks like somebody else had the same thought.  

Praying mantises are so devout.  They pray constantly! 

And also, they creep me out.  But I do like that shade of green he's wearing.​

​

His friend could use a little sprucing up, though.  That brown is kind of drab.  

Although, I can spot this guy better than the first one, so maybe the boring color is better. 

Either way, I'm glad I could provide a habitat for all these creatures, from the mundane to the majestic.

It's nice to know that as my zinnias are putting on their final display for the year, they are also fueling the monarchs for their long  journey to Mexico, which by the way, is where zinnias originally hail from.

I love that!  Sometimes the world just makes too much sense.​​  ​

Hmm.  Maybe nature isn't as random as we've been told...​now there's a thought!

​

I used to love cats, back when I was a little girl with long red pigtails and freckles dotting my nose.  But it was that very nose that finally caused me to give up my obsession--it wouldn't quit running. And sneezing...and itching.

And my eyes wouldn't stop itching either and watering and blurring and everything else that went along with feline-fueled allergies. 

So cats became a thing of my past, as did so many other things as I emerged from childhood and grew into adulthood.

But it's funny how circular life is.  And when my son became increasingly adoring of the kitties at grandma's house, and the mice became increasing fond of the cozy spaces in my house, I made an executive decision...​

​

 Meet Tom. 

Tom arrived several months ago after a thorough vetting process that went something like this:

    Me:  "Hey Will, next time you're at Grandma's house, pick us out one of those kitties." 
    Will:  "Okay."

And that's how we ended up with Tom.  In hindsight, I could've been more specific in my directions, like that we needed a female, since they tend to be better mousers, and that the cat should show some signs of initiative, i.e. energy...

​

Pretty much just the opposite of Tom. 

But he is irresistibly cute.  And incredibly loving, sweet, and tolerant...even to those belonging to the rodent race.​

Hmm.  That didn't play out like I'd hoped. 

​On the plus side, it did force me to find another way to deal with those persistent pests, which in turn, lead to the creation of my new Peppermint Rodent Repellant.  And it's working great!

So now we're all happy--me, Will, Tom.  Even my husband seems okay with the situation.  The only ones who aren't so pleased are the mice!

And I'm okay with that.​

So once again I've been reminded that things don't always work out like I planned...
​​​

Sometimes they work out better.​

Tom may not be the best mouser or the most energetic kitty in the world, but he sure has made Will one of the happiest boys in the world.

And, as a mother, that means more than anything else.

​Even if I do need an allergy pill every now and then!
​
  
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You know I love rare heirloom animals, and most of the animals I raise are both rare and heirloom.  But every once in a while I end up fascinated with a breed that is not necessarily an heirloom, but none-the-less rare, and in addition, very interesting.  

This just happens to be the case with my new spring chicks.

These fellas are sure cute, but there's actually something quite special about them and how they came to be.  Here's how the story goes:

There is an unusual type of black chicken that has recently risen to popularity, described as Fibro Melanistic, meaning the black pigment present in their genetics is so strong, it permeates throughout the bird's body--even into its bones.  These birds are not only ebony black on the outside, but on the inside too!  As you might expect, this unusual trait makes them coveted by breeders worldwide, and by default, also makes them extremely expensive--up to four figures! 

Definitely out of my price range.  Or so I thought...

Funny things happen sometimes when you're least expecting them, and such was the case for me late last summer when I got a phone call from my best-est breeder buddy who just happens to be on the leading edge of this Fibro Phenomenon. 

Don't take this the wrong way, but I love it when he calls me.  My husband is fully aware of this, and he's fine with it.  Really.

I love these phone calls because it usually means something chicken-related and very exciting is about to happen, and this time was no different. 

My buddy had hatched a plan, and after hearing his ideas and having no desire to question the authority of an expert, I quickly agreed to it. 

To make a long story short, within a few hours I was the proud owner of a few Ogye Yeonsan fibro melanistic roosters whose job it was to breed with my Lavender Orpington and Isbar hens.  The eventual offspring would be a black-bodied bird with lavender feathers, and a black bodied bird that would lay a blue egg, respectively.  In the ever-evolving world of rare chicken breeding, these creations might eventually be quite desirable. 

Jumping ahead to mid-January of this year, when I finally had time to concentrate on this effort, I gathered and set several eggs in the incubator, and waited to see what would happen. 

Three weeks later, while passing by the incubator on the way to the laundry room, I heard a faint peeping coming from inside.  Inside the incubator, not the laundry room, just to be clear. 

Anyway, I peeked through the top window of the incubator and immediately forgot all about the laundry.

Because this is what I saw...

How exciting!  You see why I forgot about the laundry, although later I did have to explain to my husband why he had no clean pants to wear to work.  Having the video helped me out, though--it's always good to have proof to back up your stories.

I filmed the entire hatch for this particular chick, but since it took him almost an hour to emerge, I've shortened this clip down to the most exciting part.  It's still over ten minutes long, but if you have some free time and aren't feeling squeamish, then check it out. 

Goodness, that wore me (and him) out!  What a feat of nature, though. 

After resting for a few hours, he recovered quite nicely.  Here he is, all cute and cuddly...

He was soon joined by several other chicks, and as we speak they are all living it up in my mud room in an old aquarium-turned brooder. 

Here are a few of his friends:

This fella looks a lot like his daddy--black all over.

And this little lady looks more like her mama, with hints of lavender in her fuzzy feathers.

And then there's this crazy chick, who looks a bit like both parents and who thought it would be funny to stand in the feed jar and show me his hiney. 

He was right.  It was funny.

There are eleven chicks so far, and there are more still hatching.  The colors vary on each of them, but this is to be expected since it takes a couple of generations to stabilize the characteristics we're aiming for.  But the good news is that I'll have plenty of sweet little chicks hatching out this year, and eventually they'll mature into some pretty incredible chickens. 

Oh the fun of farm life!  And newly hatched spring chicks make it even more so, even if technically it is still winter.  Who cares what the calendar says!

We have a summer tradition in my family that goes back many years. When mid-August rolls around, we head toward Sedalia, Mo for a day of fun at the Missouri State Fair.  The morning is spent browsing through the livestock buildings, the afternoon eating our way through the food stands, and the evening spinning, shaking, and splashing away on the midway rides.

Here's the only photo I got of us this time, and it's clearly at the end of the day--the long, sweltering, exhausting but wonderful day.

If you aren't aware, mid-August in mid-Missouri is hot, not to mention humid, and this year was no different. Let me just say right here that I don't always look my best after walking around in 90 degree heat for 10 hours straight.  But you don't either, so let's call us equal and move on.

And move on we did--this year breaking tradition because Will couldn't wait til dark to ride the rides. Off to the midway we went, and the first thing the boys jumped in was the Spinning Apple.  We just can't seem to resist produce--especially if it's a life-size replica of our favorite orchard fruit.

And then came the bungee jump...

And the water ball...

And finally the Ferris Wheel.  After which the heat started to go to our heads (I'm sure standing in line on a sizzling metal platform while temperatures--and the passengers already aboard--soared around us had nothing to do with that), so we headed to the spots I'd been itching to get to all day: the poultry building, the agriculture displays, and the large animal barns. 

You may have noticed I have no photos of any of this...I believe I mentioned the 10 hours spent walking around in the 90 degree heat.  To put it simply, it's exhausting.  And it made pulling my phone out of my pocket to snap pictures seem like a monumental task.  Although I had no problem gulping down several fresh-squeezed lemonades.  Go figure.

Darn it. I'll do better next year.  But let me tell you what I saw: Chickens galore (including a gorgeous Blue-laced Red Wyandotte), rare ducks and geese, freshly shorn sheep, plump pink piglets nestled up to their monstrous momma, the finest cattle in the state, and the famous Clydesdale pulling team, of which the lightest member weighed 2,ooo lbs. Pardon my stating the obvious, but that's an entire ton! Holy horsetails!

The Clydesdales were massive, as was our day.  By the time 10 pm rolled around we were walked out, worn out, and almost out of cash.  We headed toward the exit gate hoping to catch the trolley to the parking area, but then fate intervened.  There, right beside the gate, was the very animal I've been hoping to cross paths with for several years.  It's extremely rare, slightly dangerous, and far too exciting for me to resist jumping on the back of. 

You heard me.  And my husband had the presence of mind to whip out the camera and snap this shot...

That right there is a mechanical bull, folks.  I haven't seen one for at least ten years, not since the last time I was in Forth Worth at the world's largest honkytonk, Billy Bob's Texas Cafe.

Incidentally, that's also the last time I saw Willie Nelson live and in person.  Which was right after I slammed into his harmonica player while pushing my way though the crowded saloon.  Neither of us saw that coming, and his reaction was faster than mine--he put a hand on each of my shoulders, lifted me straight up, and abruptly set me down out of the way.  Apparently I interrupted his beeline to the stage--which was inherently more important than my beeline to the bull, so I'm not holding it against him.  In fact, I bypassed the bullriding that night and gave The Redheaded Stranger my full attention...it was the least I could do after my scuffle with his sidekick. But I digress, so let's get back on the road again--to the State Fair, that is.

Since there was no country music legend (or random band member) to deter me this time, there was no way I wasn't getting on this bull.

After frantically digging around in my pocket (and Geoffrey's pocket and William's pocket) to scrape together enough cash to live my dream, I gleefully climbed onto that ferocious creature.  (I'm not afraid of wild animals. Especially when there's a sweaty and slightly bored-looking carnival worker at the controls.)

I was determined to make it 8 seconds, but let me just say, I was secretly hoping for longer.  And let me also just say that if I didn't have a bum shoulder and hadn't just spent ten hours hiking around the fair grounds in that 90 degree heat, sky-high humidity, and glaring sun, I would still be hanging onto that bull.

What was that?  You're starting to sound like my husband.  I know that smothered chuckle/cough all too well.  Try to keep your thoughts to yourself, please.  I need to finish my story.

Soooo.  Because I still love you (and because I know you need to see it to believe it), I uploaded the video to YouTube.  So you go ahead and enjoy the show...I gotta go put some ice on my shoulder.

Kids.  You gotta love 'em...even when they show you up.

A funny phrase came out of my mouth this morning:  "Hey, you Turkey!  Those are mine! ".  Now, before anyone has a chance to accuse me of blatant name calling, let me just clarify exactly who I was shouting at:

Now you see why I called him a "Turkey"?  What else would you call one of my heirloom Bourbon Reds?  Now let me show you what he was doing that inspired my outburst:

Yep.  He was stealing blackberries. 

Alright, let's be honest--I don't think he really knew he was stealing.  After all, Bourbon Reds are excellent foragers (which is why I raise them), and since they've been given free reign to free-range anywhere on the homestead, it's only natural that he would be drawn like a magnet to the abundantly appealing fruit blanketing the blackberry brambles. 

I guess I'm not the only one who can't resist gobbling down a ripe blackberry.

I know I've previously discussed my greediness concerning blackberries, so let me just quickly say that generosity is not my first response when faced with a situation like this.  I think you might agree if put in my position, so let's just get you there right now.  I'll set the stage:

It's a calm, beautiful morning on the homestead.  The sun has just crept over the horizon, and its rays are cascading over the blackberry patch; The vibrant fruit practically glows in the early morning light.  You are peacefully ambling along the path through the brambles, picking the plump dark berries dangling from the tips of the red clusters and gently dropping them into the basket on your arm.  The sounds of country life surround you: an occasional crow from a rooster, the tall grasses rustling in the breeze, the squeaks from a pair of bickering squirrels.  A busy bumble bee zooms past you as you round the bend of your own private "Garden of Eden".  Then suddenly your harmonious world is abruptly shattered when you come face to face with a real-life berry poacher, caught red-handed (or red-feathered) in the act of berry-thieving. 

Startling, isn't it?  You figure out your own response.

After my initial outburst (which by the way, didn't phase that tricky turkey at all), I did my best to calm down.  I think he noticed, because he took a few steps in my direction and gave me this look:

My heart softened a bit.  I thought he was trying to communicate with me, maybe even trying to apologize, but it turned out he was just moving into position to do this:

Now I've raised turkeys on the homestead for about a decade, and I thought I'd seen all their moves: strutting, dancing, waddling, flying... but I've never until this moment here seen one jump straight up. 

But listen, I know all about doing what you have to do in order to get to that one irresistible glossy ripe berry. 

And the best berries always seem to be just out of my reach too...even when I stand on my tippy toes and stretch my neck out as far as it will go. 

Hmm...this turkey and I might be more alike than I thought.  I get where he's coming from.

Now that I think about it, I believe I may have discovered a kindred spirit right there in the blackberry patch this morning--and it seems perfectly fitting that it's an auburn-hued one with a belly full of berries! 

Hey, instead of "two peas in a pod", I think I'll call us "two berries on a bramble"! 

I like it, I really do.

Winter is a difficult time for all the residents on the homestead, especially the animals.  No one in their right mind would argue that fact.  I've never been accused of having my right mind, but even this lefty knows that winter--with its frigid winds, cold dry air, and occasional blanket of snow--doesn't offer the most comfortable weather.  Especially if you live outside.

If you're a farm animal (which I'm not, just so you know) this time of year is basically a test of endurance.  Production of any variety all but ceases when survival mode kicks in, and I don't mind at all.  Except when we're talking about egg production.  I do like my fresh eggs. 

We don't mind at all.  It's just so nice to have fresh eggs.

Having said all this, there is a way to manipulate the egg-laying cycle.   I could heat the coop and keep a light on continuously, and this would trick the hens into laying eggs year round.  But I don't want to trick my hens.  (My accidentally leaving the chicken shed light on after feeding my birds doesn't count here, even though it happens occasionally.  I'm human, and forgetful.  And usually very cold.) 

I like that my chickens pass through normal phases depending on the seasons, and I believe allowing them to do this produces a healthy, well-adjusted bird.  Some even say it can extend their life span, and I think it can definitely extend their laying years.  I have several older hens who still produce eggs regularly, despite having past an age when laying should've, according to research, already ceased. 

So, even though my decision to raise my chickens naturally means that I buy store-bought eggs for a few weeks each winter, I'll live.  And so will my chickens.  In fact, as I said before, they may even live longer because of it.  Happy, healthy chickens is my goal...and to me, winter eggs are just a bonus!

Now if I could only keep them from freezing solid!

I just love heirloom pumpkins, and so does our pig. 

I love them because they are so unique looking and they taste great.  She just loves them because they taste great.  Pigs don't care about appearances.

I'm not talking about you, Miss Piggy.  You have impeccable taste.  Just ask Kermit.

    One of the rarest breed of chickens on the homestead is the Isbar (ice-bar).  This breed hails from Sweden and was developed in the 1950's by a catholic monk.  They've only been available in the United States since 2011. 
    The birds are a smaller breed, but larger than a bantam.  The most coveted feather color is called "blue", which is in reality a shade of slate-gray. Our birds are Blue and Splash (white with large gray specks).  They love to free-range and are quiet birds, although sometimes a bit skittish.  The hens lay a beautiful green egg, and on my farm, are very broody.  They seem to have a special bond with their chicks, too.  I've often found their offspring nesting right along with the mother even after maturity. 
    Our Isbar flock is small right now, but that won't be the case for long if the broody mothers keep on hatching chicks.  We'd like to eventually make some fertile eggs available to other rare-breed chicken lovers, too.  That's further down the road for us, but right now we simply enjoy having this very rare breed roaming around the barnyard.