There is something inherently beautiful about eggs straight from the farm and fresh from the chicken and I get all sorts of wonky when I have an opportunity to obtain some.
It may stem from growing up in Connecticut where we had farm-fresh eggs available to us within a mile or two in every direction. It felt like a covert operation to drive to a farm, find the table with eggs set upon it, leave a dollar under the rock (it was always a rock), leave a used egg carton if you could, and make off with a carton of this delicious forbidden fruit.
When I was living in Arizona I, quite literally, hunted for the exceptional vessel that would be deemed worthy to hold my eggs. With their blues, browns, ivories, and whites; they became a patchwork art that changed daily with use. This berry bowl made the grade. Is it very weird that padding out to the kitchen after a good night’s sleep and seeing this bowl full of eggs makes me so very happy?
If I know hen-fresh eggs are available somewhere, I’ll go through any sort of hurdle to obtain these beautiful little ovoid shells. Such yummy goodness! Surely, when God was leading the Israelite’s into paradise, He was talking about the land of milk and honey and farm-fresh eggs.
May God bless us all with His abundant provision.