Fresh Eggs

“To be interested in food but not in food production is clearly absurd.”

Wendell Berry

Speckled brown, rosy taupe, pale green. These beauties are almost too pretty to crack open. Almost.

Bobbing in the bowl, their yolks are as orange and round as ripe apricots. They are tenacious, requiring assertive action with a wooden-handled whisk. And a splash of water.

The mixture, poured onto the heat of an iron skillet, scrambles and cooks into a glossy, golden mound.

Yesterday, I watched the hens that produced these eggs scratch in the dirt for bugs, peck at scraps of cantaloupe and spinach, and perch on low-hanging branches outside their backyard coop.

I grab a plate. Sea salt. A generous grind of black pepper.

Thank you, my fine-feathered friends, for a taste of gratitude this morning.

“This magical, marvelous food on our plate, this sustenance we absorb, has a story to tell. It has a journey. It leaves a footprint. It leaves a legacy.”

Joel Salatin, Folks, This Ain’t Normal; You Can Farm