Eggs

Here’s the thing about Mary’s eggs (or technically, Mary’s chickens’ eggs). They are almost too pretty to eat. There are brown ones, and blue ones, and green ones, and almost pink ones. They’re small and pointy and perfect and beautiful. I want to put them in a glass vase on my counter (but I understand e-coli and salmonella, so I’ll refrain) and look at them all day.

There is something so good about providing beautiful protein like that for your family. If we ever move, I hope to have a little more property so I can keep a little flock of busybody, bustling fat ladies making eggs and eating my compost. But I doubt I could eat them. THe chickens, I mean. For all the obvious reasons, plus the fact that I’m not a huge fan of chicken meat (yeah, I know – it’s unfashionable, but I prefer red meat… the redder the better).