It was a little over a year ago, when my husband brought home from the post office a tiny box. “I can’t believe all those chicks fit in that box,” I said,”it’s so little.” My husband’s hand seemed to swallow each one as he moved them from the box to an area we had prepared in the cellar. They all stood together under the warmth of the heat lamp, each pressing against the other, steadying.
Each Sunday morning, I rise early to make homemade waffles. It requires eggs and lots of them since I quadruple the recipe and then double the recipe most Sundays. I never know how many teenage boys will emerge from the bedrooms once the smell wafts through the house. This past Sunday as I cracked the eggs into a smaller bowl, it occurred to me what a miraculous year-long production it has been as the tiny chicks have grown to produce food for my family. The yolks, a vibrant yellow orange, plump-a work of art smiled up at me. Truly, a gift.