Confession: I also love popping egg yolks in my mouth. I wait until nobody is watching and then I shovel in the entire yolk and. . .ah, bliss. This disgusts Martin. It may also disgust you. My friend Lindsay (see her blog, Light on the Ridge, in Calling Cards) just wrote a delightful piece about her family harvesting local eggs from a friend and her "girls." She's right about the difference between eggs straight from under a "girl" or an egg from a crate at market--the shells are beautiful, the yolks bright as suns. We get our eggs from our good friend Mike, who also sells pork from his "boys--" the main reason, for certain, that I am not a vegetarian. Ohhhhh, man, are his pigs deeeelicious. Even our vegetarian family breaks down and shovels in mouthful of Mike's pork or goes for a bite of his thick-cut, peppered bacon. Here's a chicken pic in return for yours, Linds.
I LOVE food. It is one of the most dear things of this life.
What is more glorious: the first golden cherry tomato of summer (or red, if you prefer), or the initial crunch of autumn's first apple, say a really good, hard Gala or the almost bitter Arkansas Black? It's almost time for a trip to one of our local orchards. This year, the kids and I are going picking for a change.
Oh, man, I am tired out tonight. I feel as though I can't quite keep the momentum going. You guessed it. Girl's Night. A walk through an uncommonly warm afternoon, spaghetti, broccoli delivered into our mouths by our fingers. Merry was shirtless and Elspeth was in her underwear. Try to figure that one out.
The girls did well, dressing themselves and each other for bed, tidying up, and obeying without too much fuss. And I am still exhausted. The powers that be forecast temperatures in the high 80s for the rest of the week. In Lindsay's blog, she's all get-upped in this darling woolen hat. I may just have to break out the girls' shorts again. It's been scorching these past months. Will somebody please remind me to water the yellowing plants on my front porch? I've given up on the hanging geranium. I'm not attentive enough. The romance is over.
1 comment:
Adorable picture!
My job in the morning on my Pa Pa's farm was feeding the chickens, and gathering the eggs.
Nothing tastes better to this day than two or three of those fresh laid (Lain?) eggs fried, scrambled or boiled.
Throw in some bacon from a farm raised hog, and you have heaven!
And my Aunt would usually sneak me a piece of her homemade apple pie, for breakfast!
Your girls are lucky my dear!
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