An Eggsellent Adventure

I live in a lovely subdivision that was once farmland and pastures.  Most of the houses are about 15 years old and the neighborhood is built around numerous large, open greenspaces.  There are cul de sacs and cherry trees, lots of sidewalks and a friendly feel.  The one exception to the uniformity of the subdivision is a small, rundown, older house hidden behind an overgrown tangle of bushes.  A collection of rusty vehicles and machinery  sits alongside the house and as you walk by, you can sometimes hear roosters crowing.  This is the last remaining holdout of the original farms.  I have no idea who lives there, nor do I have any idea how much land is back there or what goes on there.  I never see anyone going in or out.  The only thing that ever changes is that every now and then, a hand-markered sign on a piece of cardboard that simply says "eggs" appears on the mailbox.

When I made my decision to eat more locally, I announced that the next time I saw the egg sign, I would march right up there, by God, and buy some eggs.  The mystery of the house had me concerned, though.  I was partially convinced that the sign was simply there to lure unsuspecting women who would then be kidnapped, killed and have their eggs harvested and sold.  Or possibly have their eggs harvested, then killed.  I'm not entirely sure of the proper sequence.  The place is a little scary is what I'm trying to say.

Today my friend Karen and I took our daughters and went for a walk,  On the way home, I noticed that the egg sign was up.  I stopped in my tracks to decide what to do.  Juliana was all for it, so I summoned my courage and we crossed the street.  We climbed the crumbling front steps and knocked on the door.  A young man opened it and I inquired about the eggs.  He said he only had one dozen and that it cost $2.  I told him I'd take it.  I only had a five dollar bill and he went to look for change, leaving the door open.  The inside was dark and smelled musty.  He came back unable to find change and I told him not to worry about it. I took my dozen eggs (packaged in an old Trader Joe's carton) and we walked back to Karen's house.

The eggs were various sizes and shades of brown, except for one which was best described as green.  I immediately started to second guess my purchase.  I have a slight egg issue, as it is.  Every time I go to crack an egg, the fear of some slimy, three-quarters formed chick falling into my bowl flits across my mind.  God knows what I would find inside these eggs.  Probably mutant baby alligators.  With this on my mind, I gathered up my children and my eggs and got ready to go.  I double checked my plans to walk in the morning with Karen's husband Jimmy.  "Probably not", he said, "since you'll be suffering from dysentary."  Ever helpful, that one.

When dinner time arrived, we grabbed the camera and got started.



I mentioned that green one, right?



Here you can see the variation in size next to (as Laura Ingalls would say) a boughten one.



First we cracked a regular egg for comparison's sake.  Then I thoroughly rinsed three of the other eggs.  Juliana did all the cracking.  Here's a side by side comparison with the store bought egg on the left.



Immediately you could see a difference.  The yolk was larger and more richly colored.  The white was more plentiful, glossier and firmer. 

Here's another one.  Still consistently better colored.  Not sure if you can see how much higher the yolk was than the store bought egg.


Here's the store bought one.


We braved the green one.  Here's David looking scared of it.



Juliana got to work scrambling them up.  The color was exquisite.




Turns out these eggs were delicious.  They cookedup so fluffy and there was a firmness to them that was delightful.  Unlike the scrambled eggs I'm used to that are slippery and have to be scooped up with your fork, these were light and tender, but dense and didn't fall apart when the fork hit them.

The kids ate every last bite.  And so far, no dysentary!