According to recent calculations a third of a million eggs will be laid on Islesboro in the next ten years, and that will be just by hens as long as our chicken population does not change very much. Islesboro has around 603 souls, according to the 2000 census, and at this time of year, March, there is at least one breakfast egg laid per person every six days or so.
We have in residence 194 hens in 16 households, which is six percent of the 275 year-round households. There are even summer chickens who come with two households who bring their own hens, including one fine old bird named Elizabeth. By owner estimate, approximately 102 pieces of hen fruit are laid everyday.
When we moved into this house, it was clear that someone here had been a chicken aficionado. There was a pile of early 1900s-era galvanized incubating and feeding equipment, a nineteen-teens volume of The Standard of Perfection that detailed what the ideal Rhode Island Red or Barred Rock ought to be. On the inside of the barn door is written in pencil various formulas for chicken feed. A photograph of our side yard from 1912 shows the edge of Annie Bunker’s garden surrounded by, you guessed it, chicken wire. And the photo shows Mr. Chicken Grower, himself, Annie’s son, Newton Bunker, who, according to family stories, when he wasn’t helping out his elderly aunties, raised chickens.
Up the road only a few hundred feet from our house lived Frank W. Ladd, who had a poultry and berry farm at least for a while. George Dodge had dairy cows and hens on the West Bay Rd., and he sold milk and eggs. But most people either had hens themselves or got their eggs from neighbors.
Hens are a mixed blessing. I liked having hens. I found them companionable. I had some that followed me around the yard clucking, scratching, taking dust baths, greeting me with joy in the morning when I came with grain and water. Our neighbors have a lovely clutch of hens who will make the occasional neighborly visit across the road, taking their lives in their scratchers to explore a new yard. I even enjoy roosters crowing and never could understand why people who live in cities or suburbs where they hear sirens at all hours, and the hideous sound of weed-whackers and leaf-blowers during the day, would complain about roosters.
One downside is how much of a flower or vegetable garden one hen can lay waste to in fifteen minutes. We used to joke that if we could harness the chickens and make them go in one direction, they would make great little cultivator tractors. Then there is the matter of their utter lack of discretion as far as their toilet is concerned. One old timer said, “Oh, they’re nasty if you let them out in the door yard. You have to walk on stilts.” Of course, though, she admitted, “The hens are better off scratching. The egg shells are so firm and nice and the yolks a good color.” Most Islesboro chickens get out to scratch.
One time, we took some of our own eggs to a favorite diner where we asked if the cook could use them in a breakfast special we were fond of. He took the eggs, but shortly after, sent the waitress out to ask us to come look at the eggs on the griddle. “These eggs must have been frozen,” he said, “Look at how the yolks sit up here.” Poor guy. He had been trained at one of America’s premier culinary schools, but he’d never seen a fresh egg.
In recent years eggs have gotten a bad reputation, a terrible shame. First it was cholesterol, then the salmonella fright. The atrocious living conditions provided chickens by large growers has infected hens with salmonella where it was rare before. (You’ll be glad to know that the incidence of egg-caused salmonella infections among humans dropped by 48 percent between 1996 and 1999.) Still people are afraid of freshly made mayonnaise, or an over easy egg, and won’t let their children have raw cookie dough. The egg advisory board says that if you are an average consumer you have one chance every 84 years getting sick from a salmonella infected egg, but of course they would say that.
Chickens raised in high quality conditions, and eggs kept cool during transportation, until they are cooked or served, are unlikely to cause illness. That would be virtually every Islesboro egg. I have always asserted that you can eat a raw egg with impunity if you know your hens personally, or at least know personally the person who does.
There is quite a variety of chicken types presently on island. New Hampshire Reds and White Leghorns are the most popular, though hens of unknown or mixed parentage are most populous. There are also Rhode Island Reds, Buff Orpingtons, Silverlaced Wyandotts, Aracunas, Barred Rocks, Jersey Black Giants, and a scattering of White Orpingtons, Plymouth Rocks, and one Golden Polish. There are also peahens and guinea hens that lay perfectly good eggs.
Most households keep the lights on so the hens think it is still daylight, which keeps their little pituitary glands stimulated enough that we all are blessed with more eggs for longer, though the poor chickens do not get a richly deserved vacation. Or, a long time resident said to me, “as the old timers used to say, ‘let them rest their bung holes.'”
The current American average egg consumption is 254 per capita. In one year enough eggs are produced on island to supply at the national average 118 people, or 20 percent of the year round population. So we need roughly five times as many more chickens as we have.
In the summer, one of our Islesboro markets sells, on average, 10,800 eggs a week. That is a lot of off-island eggs. We’d need close to 1,500 hens to keep up with that demand. If there were that many, some of our chickens could take the winter off, or kick back a little, like some of our residents do. In summer, all hens would have to turn to, like their owners, to keep up with the demand for egg salad sandwiches, quiche, cakes, fried eggs for breakfast, custard and all.
– Sandy Oliver
Islesboro
Sandy Oliver is Publisher/Editor of Food History News, foodhistorynews.com. Jamie MacMillan conducted much research for this article.