For the past couple weeks, I have been
buffeted ceaselessly by the winds of a psychological maelstrom. Like Dorothy on
her way to Oz, I feel as if the world is spinning around me, an unfettered,
whirling dervish of sound and fury, uncontrolled and uncontrollable.
All because of a few eggs.
Now, I should preface this week’s
column by noting I grew up a city boy. The closest I got to country living was
the Norman Rockwell print on the wall of my dentist’s office. So my new life
out here in the willywags has been something of an adjustment.
It’s been three years or so since I
relocated to The Lovely Mrs. Taylor’s rural home and I’m still not entirely
used to dirt roads and the occasional whiff of my neighbor’s hobby pig farm.
I’m not complaining, though. I’ve actually
grown to like the smell of pigs (from a distance), of horses, cows,
fresh-tilled fields. You never could have convinced me of that three years ago,
but living out here under the wide sky changes a person.
Sadly, that change is still
incomplete. At least when it comes to eggs.
Regular readers of this column (Hi,
Bob and Edna!) know already that I bought some chickens this spring. Eight of
them, on a whim at Tractor Supply Company.
They quickly grew from adorable
yellow balls of fuzz into squawking monstrosities that behave exactly like
those killer dinosaurs from “Jurassic Park,” only with feathers. They haven’t
exactly tried to kill and eat me yet, but I have had my ankles pecked on more
than one occasion. Usually when they’re growing impatient for their morning
treat. They can be very demanding.
But in the past couple weeks, they’ve
gone from feathered freeloaders to contributing members of the family. That’s
right, the eggs. At first, just a couple, laying there lonely in the nesting
boxes each morning. Then three, then four, then five. And the chicks are not
even all producing yet. What I’m trying to say is, I’m set for eggs.
However, this is where the
psychological maelstrom comes in. The eggs, man! The eggs!
See, I have lived my entire life
eating food that comes sanitized, shrink-wrapped, sorted, processed, inspected,
color-enhanced and irradiated, for all I know. Between the antibiotic-ameliorated
poultry and my breakfast table there have always been many steps. Steps that
help disguise the fact I’m eating something that came out a bird’s … well,
wherever the eggs come out.
Now? Each morning when I go out to
the coop to gather eggs, I’m faced with the startling reality that eggs come
from chickens. Live, squawking, bug-eating, dust-scratching, patio-furniture-pooping-on,
in-fighting, cantankerous chickens!
For a former sophisticated urbanite
like myself, it’s akin to discovering Soylent Green is made from people. Let’s
just say this knowledge does nothing to improve my appetite.
Oh, Mrs. T does her best to erect a
wall of civilization between the coop and the table. She brushes the poo from
the eggs, rinses them and then runs them through a sterilizing bath of some
sort before placing them in a carton.
By the time I pull an egg from the
refrigerator, I’m sure it’s every bit as clean as anything I could buy at the
grocery. And frankly, our eggs taste MUCH better. Seriously, it’s a night and
day difference. “Chicken people” have been telling me that would be the case
for months, but I didn’t really believe them until I experienced it first hand.
So the problem isn’t that the eggs
are dirty, or that they taste funny, or anything like that. The problem is in
my mind. I now know too much about eggs; where they come from, how they’re made.
Creatures I care for daily grew them INSIDE THEIR BODIES!
I’m sure you readers who grew up in
the country are laughing your backsides off right now, but this is serious.
I’ve always loved eggs and I want to keep on loving them.
I wonder if there are any
psychiatrists out there who specialize in this sort of thing?
(616) 730-1414
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