A Bird in the Hand

Regardless of how much I would like to raise chickens and have "farm-fresh" eggs at the ready, I know there are limits on how much I can do in a day. Having chickens requires having someone at home to watch over them during the day--and this can't be the dog--and someone to put them up in the evening.

Not only are the foxes around here brave enough to venture onto our patio, the neighbors do not seem the sort exactly open to the idea of wayward poultry scratching in their yards. I would have to worry about them--the chickens, the foxes, and the neighbors--all the time. I don't have the energy for that.

I mentioned my love of homegrown eggs in my night class last semester: rich scrambled eggs, yellow cakes that are really yellow. One of the students came up to me after class and said she could bring me all the fresh eggs I could eat. Her father sells organically raised chickens and their eggs, and they keep the smallest eggs for themselves. "I cannot eat four dozen eggs a week," she said. "You're welcome to at least half of them for as long as you want them."

Last Thursday, she brought me two dozen of the sweetest little eggs. They are barely the size of my cupped palm, and I have small hands. Making scrambled eggs for the three of us took an entire dozen, but they are the richest eggs I have ever eaten. When I made the white cake yesterday, I compared the store-bought eggs to the farm eggs, and the color of the yolks is the difference between the color of lemons and oranges.

I am thankful for students who enjoy sharing their abundance with me. I should not be so amazed at the number of good people I know, but I often forget how many there are.