A journalist observes life in the far north.
After a long, cold winter and sacrifices of one foot and a few toes—not ours, the chickens’—we have eggs. Incredible, edible eggs. Beautiful brown ovals covered in poop, yes, but eggs. The only difference from store bought eggs is that the yolks are bigger. I put one in a meat loaf, and I couldn’t taste the difference compared with store-bought eggs, but then again there are a lot of spices in meat loaf.
I shall make quiche. I shall make omelets. I shall make egg foo young. Then we will see about taste. I shall sell some too, as soon as the other hens begin to lay and we have more eggs than we can eat. I want these hens to pay for their own food. Six eggs have come so far. I haven’t looked in the hen house, but Alec says the hen built a little nest out of hay. I wonder which hen is laying. I hope it’s the one that lost her leg to the cold. Poor girl could use a break.