Remembering the taste of an egg

It goes way back. We had chickens when we lived on Hannah Ave. in Mt. Morris. Mom use to say, without a smile, the eggs cost about $1 a piece, which in the early 50s was a chunk of change. She bought special feed, and shell hardener, and equipment to keep them safe from predators. They would drop their feathers, look peaked with half closed eyes, and fall over and die. It never paid off the way the garden did. Nor do I remember what a fresh egg tastes like. Until today. I learned.


I stopped at the Farmers Market today and picked from a basket a dozen eggs retrieved from the nest yesterday. The lady sitting next to me in the Greek Civilization class said she had lived in the Dominican Republic for 22 months, and there fresh eggs would last about 30 days, longer than refrigerated eggs.

I fixed my husband and me fried egg sandwiches for lunch (his had ham salad too, which affected the taste) and then took my treasure to the basement just in case they need to be cool. However, these will never last 30 days, because this was just about the most heavenly sandwich I'd ever tasted. No wonder Mom was willing to put up with that mess in the back yard and why my Dad kept fixing himself a fried egg sandwich the last years of his life. Looking for the good old days, I think.