Oh me oh my. Every once in a while on Tuesday mornings B and I get a mini weekend kind of thing where we can sleep in a little and have a late breakfast. Today was one such morning, and after collecting four more eggs over the weekend we plotted to make our first farm fresh fried egg breakfast.
What a simple pleasure, to crack open eggs gathered in our back yard from hens who have only eaten organic grains and legumes and garden fresh greens and bugs. The yolks were the deepest orange yellow and far less runny than store-bought eggs. We fried them up and plopped them down on a piece of toast topped with a little grated cheese and chopped arugula from the garden, salt and pepper to please. As I broke the first yolk my mind was filled with the memory of the girls as little chicks just peeping their hearts out from inside their tiny mailing carton, of B and me eating dinner in the basement every night giggling ourselves hiccupy with their goofiness, of catching pillbugs and watching them go nuts until Gonzo finally ate them. What a hoot.