from the repotted roost

Seven years ago, I started dreaming about keeping chickens. Last week, that dream finally arrived — six tiny, peeping chicks — and repotted took another step closer to the urban farm we’re becoming.

We came home with a Rhode Island Red, a Light Brahma, an Olive Egger, an Isa Brown, and two Black Sex-Links. Five breeds chosen for their temperament, hardiness, and most importantly, their eggs. A good egg is one of life’s great pleasures, and I’ve spent years thinking about what it would mean to produce our own.

For now, our girls are getting their start in the boys’ bathroom, under a heat lamp, watched over with perhaps more attention than strictly necessary. We expect to move them to the coop mid-April, weather permitting. In the meantime, I’ve already learned that pasty butt is real, treatable, and deeply unglamorous.

What this flock means for repotted goes beyond the romance of it. These girls will live on organic feed. They’ll work our garden beds as natural pest managers. They’ll nest in coffee chaff that will break down into compost to amend the crops. And eventually, they’ll produce eggs that reflect the same standard we hold everything else to — raised well, fed well, and grown as close to home as possible. That’s what repotted truly means.

Welcome home, ladies!

Love,

Syd 🌿