There are mornings when you just can’t quite summon the will to proceed, mornings where you’re groggy, and dreading your job, and feeling like it’s all a long treadmill of the same old same old and here you are again.
On those mornings, sometimes all it takes is a good egg. A nice piece of toast with some butter, and a three minute egg you bought from your local chicken farmer. I buy mine from Isabelle, my milk lady, and while they are very expensive — about six dollars a dozen, they are really great eggs. I say this as someone who has been cheating a little lately on my egg lady. I bought some other, local, ranch eggs and I’m sorry to say, they just weren’t as good. The shells were very thin, and the yolks had a slightly funky, too-eggy taste to them that was not what one wants out of a soft boiled egg at 6:30 in the morning when one is trying to summon the will to go on. And so, I went back to my Isabelle, whose eggs are a lovely brown color, they have very sturdy shells, bright marigold colored yolks, and a perfect, clean eggy taste.
This morning, one of Isabelle’s eggs, with some chive and thyme from the winter herb garden on the back porch, a little alleppo pepper and some sea salt, well, it restored my will to live. A piece of my own sourdough bread toasted, an orange sliced into eighths, a cup of strong tea, and a walk with Raymond-the-dog, and well, Monday is now something that I can deal with. Saved by an egg.