Forget green eggs and ham and tell me now,
Which would you rather have, blue eggs or brown?
I'm in love with farm fresh eggs (I also love how the word egg looks in this font). Every Saturday morning, I am compelled to rise early and rush down to the farmer's market to have my pick. If I'm late, I'm out of luck. The two dozen eggs pictured on the left were purchased from two young girls who are raising chickens for a 4-H project. They cost an arm and a leg, but it's for a good cause, and they make me immensely happy. I often rinse the egg shells and put them on the kitchen windowsill to study while I'm doing dishes. I am amazed at the range of colors eggs come in, and how we have gotten so used to plain old white eggs.
Though, in fairness, these plain old white eggs are a thing of beauty (and cheap). I just don't know where they came from, that's all. Well, that's not entirely true. I know they came from a chicken, and I believe the package on these eggs said Petaluma, a mere 120 miles from my house. It's the conditions from whence they came which are a mystery to me. I have a suspicion that a visit to the facility where these white egg laying chickens are kept would provoke a very different feeling than a visit to the local home of the 4-H girls (which happens to be a few houses down from my brother-in-law and sister-in-law's home).
Until I can keep chickens of my own, or until a certain friend (um, Julia) invites me to collect her eggs, I will continue to rise early every Saturday to buy my fill of blue and brown eggs. The early bird buys, cracks and eats the egg.