Field & Garden: Cheeper by the Dozen
Jul 21, 2025 12:09PM ● By Mike Gennaro
I remember it like it was yesterday: my father and I stepping into the feed store just outside the New Orleans city limits. The place smelled like sawdust and hay. An elderly man behind the counter handed Dad a carton of eggs, and Dad dropped what seemed like a fortune—$50—on a large styrofoam incubator. (That’s $102.80 in today’s money.)
As we got in the car, I glanced at the eggs—streaked with feathers and smudges—and asked, “Why didn’t we just get the clean ones from the grocery store?”
“They’re fertilized bantam eggs,” Dad replied.
“What’s bantam?” I asked.
“They’re small, feisty chickens,” he explained.
I wasn’t sure why we’d want “small and feisty” over “large and juicy,” but I trusted him.
When we got home, Dad helped me set up the incubator in my bedroom. “You’re in charge now,” he said.
“Turn the eggs every few hours. Watch the temperature and humidity. You’ve got 12 eggs. You want 12 chicks.”
It was the first time I’d ever been entrusted with something so serious. I took it to heart. My turn times were 7 a.m., 4 p.m., and midnight—but I went beyond.
After school, I’d pop in ambient ‘90s music—Enigma, Armik, whatever I had on cassette—to stimulate their development. I monitored them like a mother hen. I even candled them with a flashlight, watching the miraculous progression from a dark spot to veins, to movement, to life.
Twenty-one days felt like forever. Then, one morning, I saw an egg rolling on its own, followed by a soft “peep.” A small hole cracked open—and out popped a tiny, iridescent rooster. I named him Sheldon and proudly named our little homestead Sheldon Farms.
Six chicks hatched. One was crippled—legs splayed like rubber. Since my own Dad wore a prosthetic after losing one leg to childhood cancer, I fashioned tiny braces from toothpicks and rubber bands, balancing the chick in a cup so she couldn’t sit.
Slowly, her legs strengthened. She eventually shed the braces and ran like Forrest Gump. It was unforgettable.That experience shaped my life. No matter where I’ve lived—even in a neighborhood—I’ve raised chickens. Today, I raise them with my own kids, letting them keep the incubator in their room.
And though I kept that old incubator for 30 years, I recently upgraded to a 12-egg model with an automatic turner. Still, I always recommend skipping the turner. Let your kids handle it. Let them feel the weight of new life depending on them. It's responsibility, wonder, and joy all rolled into one.
Because once you see an egg wiggle and hear that first peep, it hatches something in you, too.
You can pick up fertilized hatching eggs from a local farmer or order them online from numerous hatcheries. Warning, there are tons of scammers that prey on newbies that want to hatch colorful eggs. Even reputable hatcheries have steep shipping charges.
Save your money and head to a local farm swap, like the Saturday swap at Tri-Parish Co-op, to meet trustworthy local poultry farmers that can hook you up with hatching eggs for a couple dollars an egg at the time of this writing.
