I ate the last of the eggs for breakfast on Saturday. Hopefully, the ladies will start laying again soon. It’s funny to think that eggs also have a season. We are so used to being able to buy whatever we want, whenever we want at a grocery store, that we are really out of touch with the natural cycle of food.
I admit, with some shame, that up until last year, I had never eaten a soft-boiled egg. I was reading Angela’s Ashes: A Memoir by Frank McCourt (heartbreaking novel), and I came across this quote. I have to say, I wholeheartedly agree.
I look at my brother Malachy. Did you hear that? Our own egg of a Sunday morning. Oh, God, I already had plans for my egg. Tap it around the top, gently crack the shell, lift with a spoon, a dab of butter down into the yolk, salt, take my time, a dip of the spoon, scoop, more salt, more butter, into the mouth, oh, God above, if heaven has a taste it must be an egg with butter and salt . . .