counting them before they hatch

From where our bed is we can look into our daughter’s room and see her sleeping. At dawn I see she is in the same position she was when we settled her to bed the night before. Her hair spills out silky on the pillow in every shade of honey blonde. A couple hours later while at the computer I hear my son cry out in his sleep; when I pop into the hallway I see Sophie has slithered into my bed and is curled under the comforter.

Today is Wednesday which means – no, not that – it means I get to pick up eggs from the Market. These days I buy two or three dozen for the week (last week my husband erred and we had to make due with one dozen; I gave myself permission to use the last three for this morning’s breakfast). Since I’ve moved here I’ve gradually shifted to a mindset where I won’t buy other eggs. Now if my friend Abbi is reading this she has a little smirk on her ass right now because I used to give her a hard time for being an egg snob. I didn’t and still don’t notice a taste difference in farm eggs vs. storebought; however, I have begun to notice a color difference which I have now associated with a potential difference in freshness. As well, I’d rather support these eggs because I have a feeling these chickens live better lives than the egg layers whose products end in the store. And, they’re as cheap as the store-bought variety I was buying anyway.

I know all of you were bored with my egg story except Abbi who’s still feeling smug even as she reads this sentence.

Other to-do items today: finish Sophie’s summer dress re-fashion. Fold and put away the huge pile of laundry. First order of business? Curtail Nels’ morning nude romp.

Comments are closed.