People lose their minds over blue eggs, green eggs, speckled eggs—basically anything that looks like Dr. Seuss opened an Etsy shop. And hey, we get it. Colorful eggs are cute. They photograph well next to a sourdough loaf and a “fresh from the coop” hashtag.

But here’s the deal: eggs are temporary. Chickens are the real show.

At Cluck It All Farms, we’re not chasing pastel shells—we’re raising full-spectrum birds with more personality than your HOA president. Because while some folks obsess over what comes out of the chicken, we’re fascinated by the chicken herself.

   

The Egg Obsession Needs an Intervention

Somewhere between Pinterest and poultry panic groups, people decided that a “rainbow basket” was the pinnacle of chicken keeping. Suddenly everyone needed a hen that laid teal eggs, or olive eggs, or—God help us—pink ones.

But the truth is, egg pigment doesn’t mean much. Those gorgeous shades come from two compounds:

• Biliverdin, which gives shells a blue-green tint

• Protoporphyrin, which adds brown or reddish hues

That’s it. It’s genetics, not magic. A blue egg doesn’t mean your hen’s happier, healthier, or more “heritage.” It just means she’s got pigment genes doing their thing.

And if you’re picking breeds purely by shell color, you’re missing out on what makes chickens truly incredible: their diversity, behavior, and resilience.

So while folks are out here comparing egg shades like nail polish swatches, we’re working to preserve the genetics that keep flocks alive through Midwest winters, heat waves, and the occasional raccoon heist.

Color That Doesn’t Wash Off

Now, this is where things get interesting.

Let’s talk about the kind of color that doesn’t fade after breakfast—the kind that struts, squawks, and side-eyes you when you’re late with feed.

Take the Swedish Flower Hen. Their plumage isn’t uniform, but it’s not random chaos either—it’s art with rules. Each bird carries that trademark “flowered” pattern: bold base colors layered with white-tipped feathers that give the illusion of blossoms scattered across the body. Some lean golden-red, others black or blue-grey, but all wear that speckled look that earned them their name, blommehöna, meaning “flower hen.” These birds were shaped on the farms of southern Sweden for utility and endurance, not for ribbons—and that practicality still shows.

Then there are the Icelandic Chickens—tiny Vikings with feathers to match their history. They’ve been strutting across Iceland since the 9th century, descendants of Norse settlers’ barnyard flocks. Their color range is pure, natural diversity—reds, golds, blacks, blues, and whites. You can spot one across the yard and know it’s part of a thousand-year lineage that never needed human micromanagement to stay beautiful.

That’s the essence of a true landrace: adaptability through variation. These birds thrive in brutal climates, lay through winter, and somehow manage to look like living folklore while doing it. They don’t just survive—they perform it. Each Icelandic carries centuries of cold-weather resilience and small-farm partnership in its genes.

And don’t get us started on the Shetland Hen. Originating from the windswept Scottish isles, these tufted birds descended from Spanish galleon chickens that washed ashore 400 years ago. They’re scrappy, clever, and fiercely independent—living proof that beauty and backbone can absolutely share the same body.

Each breed’s “color” isn’t just visual—it’s historical, functional, and adaptive. It’s beauty with backbone.

One Breed, a Whole Flock of Variety

Here’s the part that blows new keepers’ minds:
with landrace chickens, you can have just one breed—and it’ll look like you adopted half the cast of a poultry talent show.

Unlike standardized show breeds that are bred to look identical, landraces were bred to thrive. That means the genetics stay open, diverse, and flexible. Instead of a rigid “one right color” rule, landrace flocks show a whole spectrum—plumage, comb types, leg colors, even personalities.

That variation isn’t just pretty—it’s powerful. It’s nature’s insurance policy. When your flock’s genetics aren’t clones of each other, they’re more resilient against disease, stress, and changing environments. Each bird brings something different to the table, and together, they build a stronger flock.

So yeah—if you want a coop that looks like a feathered kaleidoscope but still works like a well-oiled survival machine, you don’t need a mix-and-match menagerie. You just need a good landrace.

And guess what? Their eggs taste just as good as that mint-green one someone flexed on Facebook last week—probably better, because they came from birds built for the long haul, not the likes.

Landrace Logic: Built by Nature, Not by Ego

When you hear “landrace,” think “locally evolved.” These chickens weren’t engineered in a lab or selectively bred for show ribbons. They were shaped by the land—by weather, predators, and the people who depended on them.

That’s why our lineup (Swedish Flower Hen, Hedemora, Swedish Black Hen, Orust, Olandsk Dwarf, Shetland Hen, and Icelandic Chicken) isn’t about perfect plumage—it’s about adaptation.

Each bird carries hundreds of years of survival data in its DNA. They self-regulate, self-forage, and, in some cases, self-parent better than half of us.

As the Livestock Conservancy puts it, Icelandic chickens in particular have been bred for “a thousand years of self-sufficiency and mothering skills.” That’s the kind of trait no pastel egg can compete with.

Personality Over Pigment

Here’s another thing those rainbow-egg folks miss: colorful birds aren’t just beautiful—they’re full of character.

Our Hedemoras? They act like fluffy old ladies judging your life choices. The Swedish Flowers? They’ll follow you around like gossipy neighbors, commenting on everything you do. And the Icelandics? Half feral, half philosopher. They’ll disappear into the compost pile for three hours, then reappear right behind you just to make you spill your coffee.

These chickens have quirks, preferences, and opinions. They teach patience, resilience, and—if you’re lucky—humility. You don’t get that from a blue egg.

Well… unless it came from a Shetland Hen.
Those little tufted drama queens lay the prettiest blue/green eggs you’ll ever see—and still manage to make it clear they’re the ones running the place.

The Real Rainbow Lives in the Coop

Eggs are fleeting. They crack, they fry, they vanish by breakfast.

But the color in our flocks? That sticks around. It struts through the mud, roosts in the rafters, and greets you every morning with side-eye and sass.

Our birds aren’t decoration—they’re preservation. Living reminders that beauty doesn’t have to be engineered. Sometimes, it just needs room to survive.

The Cluckin’ Truth

If you want a rainbow, skip the grocery aisle and step into the coop.
You’ll find color in every feather, story in every squawk, and maybe—just maybe—a little chaos in every corner.

Because around here, we don’t breed for Easter baskets.
We breed for backbone.