Perfectly unmatched (215/365)

3

August 3, 2015 – I prefer the random characteristics of the eggs we buy now to the sterile, perfectly matched, completely flavourless eggs we used to purchase. Kirk pulled three eggs out of the basket in the fridge for breakfast, and they were all different, softly hued, but still perfect.

It’s funny how our notion of how things should be have been skewed by marketers. Tomatoes have had the flavour bred out of them, misshapen fruits and vegetable never see the produce displays in the major grocers. Growing up, food had seasons. Now we can get whatever we want, whenever we want it, as long as you don’t mind that it often has no taste.

Eggs produce happy memories for me. I remember time spent on my Granny & Grandad’s farm and having Granny ask me to go get some eggs. I’d take a pail and head down the dip past the shed, past the barn, maybe stop and hand feed a cow or two, I’d look sideways at the ripening red currant bush and hope today wasn’t the day Granny would want me to pick those….so tedious!. I’d make my way up the little rise to the chicken coop down near the end of the outbuildings and through the fence, carefully latching the gate behind me so the chickens wouldn’t get out. I’d open the door to the hen house and step into the dim light, searching through the nests for eggs, trying not to disturb the hens overly much in the process, though sometimes I’d have to move a chicken or two off their nests. The hen house always smelled warm to me; feathers and fresh straw. The sounds were soft and comforting. They were fat content birds. I’d pluck the warm smooth eggs from their nests and carefully place them in the basket before retracing my steps back out of the building, again ensuring the gate was properly latched, usually stop to greet the cows again, and make my way back up to the farmhouse where I would present my treasures to Granny, and then hope she didn’t shoo me out while I waited to see what marvelous things she produced with them in that old kitchen.

At Grandma & Grandpa’s orchard, up the hill, I remember they kept chickens for a time, but then it was just easier to get eggs from the Weidingers. They lived next door, on the far side of the alfalfa field, past the apple trees. Grandma would send me there to get eggs as needed, they always had many to spare and I never arrived empty handed. I always had a metal pail full of egg shells, and often another full of pea pods and carrot stems, and usually a few empty egg cartons to give back. The egg shells were crushed up and fed back to the chickens, Weidinger’s chickens had the hardest egg shells I can remember! The vegetable scraps were for their goats and Mrs Weidinger always knew I’d be in the barn with the goats for awhile whenever I came by. Sometimes I’d get lucky with my timing and Mr. Weidinger would be milking them and I’d be offered the pail and the stool. If not, I was content to sit with them and feed them, they would almost bowl me over in their eagerness to each get their share of the treats I’d brought them. When I’d finished my visit with the goats Mr’s Weidinger would hand me a carton or two of eggs and I’d head back across the field, dodging thistles and pheasants as I went. The pheasants always made my heart stop for a moment when they’d explode up in front of me from the depths of the ripening hay.

Yes, eggs come with some pretty amazing memories; always worthy of a photograph.