Eggs from Maggie (Black Australorps, pictured) and a little one from our pullet Chicken Patty (slow-growing CornishX). First eggs tend to be smaller, but Maggie always lays our biggest ones so perhaps the comparison is unfair. It’s easy to tell who lays what egg if you only have 7 layers.
Eggs. One small package, one thing so ubiquitous, humble and yet so miraculous. They’re cheapened, of course, by the crass way we treat battery hens; I would lay insipid eggs too if I had to live their lives of horror. But a farm-fresh egg from a well-treated hen, laying even in the depths of a greenless winter…now that is a little bit of wonder.
My family is quite happy eggs are back on the menu now that the girls are laying again. I had hoarded them during the girls’ peak moult from Thanksgiving-Christmas. But now it’s breakfast for dinner again! There is nothing quicker or more delicious than a simple fried egg steaming and hot on a plate, or even a more gymnastic poached egg sitting atop a salad. Add toast, or maybe some potatoes. Cheap wealth in eating.
I think back to the day when Bonnie laid our first egg. So perfect, so precious! Not our effort, but still we gloated. And we fought over it too if I remember correctly. One egg, split three ways.