Well, the big excitement a few hours ago was the feathers in the eggs. Damn right they were old. Yolks sticking to the shell and little white feathers. Didn’t sit quite right with me, you know. I may never trust another one. Not if it gets up and walks around, anyway.
Right away I got two fresh eggs. Now there’s a good idea. What was I doing with a couple of leghorns when I could’ve had these? Earning another cheapskate merit badge, that’s what. Like using the last piece of bread in the old loaf, except it’s turned into a mutant wheat zombie. Man ought to have his head examined. FRESH eggs, dude! From Mennonite farmers in Kalona. (Fast trucks.) There’s a store up there in Iowa, the Stringtown Store, where all these people drive up in their buggies and bonnets and yuppies in Volvos show up to buy pies. The directions to this place are head north out of Kalona and turn right at the cheese silo. You heard me. Anybody who can keep a silo of hot cheese going all year ought to know what to do with an egg. Just don’t let them sit around too long.
Fresh eggs! Brought back memories of growing up
on a farm in New Zealand, late 50’s/early 60’s.
Our free ranging hens – aka “chooks” – would lay anywhere
and everywhere. As there was no way of knowing how long
the eggs had been exposed to the elements, we would immerse
them in a pot of water. Those that sank were keepers. The
That’s what I did in Arkansas when I was a woodies hippie in ’71. We had a whole flock of donated Leghorns that roosted in the trees and laid eggs in hollow logs and all over the place, just like you say. I’d find over a dozen at a time, and most of them were just fine. Egg City!
A farm in New Zealand, eh? Wow.