Yesterday, I wrote down the directions to the house that a woman sent me on Facebook, drove up while no one was home, walked around the back, grabbed the goods out of the fridge and left my money in the jar on top.
Then I walked back to my car, got in and opened up the carton to look at my illicit purchase: a dozen large, smooth, peach-and-cream colored speckled eggs.
I’m thrilled to have found farm-fresh eggs here in Pendleton, though the manner I’m getting them isn’t really legal–Oregon state law says the egg producer (farmer) can directly sell to a customer without a license, but no one else can. Nobody offers eggs at my farmer’s market, so this is the route I have to go to get something strangely precious to me.
I’ve finally moved too far away from home to be able to get my family’s eggs anymore, so I’d been left with the utterly inferior store-bought eggs until I got this hook-up.
So why am I such an egg snob? There’s that platitude about home is where the heart is. I’m pretty sure my home is where my stomach is. I dearly miss everything about home, but I can’t bungee-cord Mount Sentinel to the back of my car and tow it with me. I can, however, load up my trunk with Montana beer, bread, cheese, milk and eggs and take it with me.
When you live somewhere your whole life, you know where the good stuff is. You know where to go grocery shopping, where the good bakeries are, which local dairy has wonderful rich creamy cheese. I am intent upon living in Oregon for a few years, so I’m working on finding all that good stuff here, but it’s a process.
Part of that process is eggs. They’ve always been my simplest, favoritest form of protein, what with their dozens of applications, fast cooking and nutrients. I knew when I cracked open these new illicit Pendleton eggs and saw the deep yellow yolk that I’d made a good choice. And I feel more confident that I can live and eat here, so far away from my home.