A few years ago, he brought over a slab of raw tuna, sliced off a chunk, and said “taste this”. Oh my goodness, no. For some reason, eating raw meat that bypassed a restaurant was unfathomable. After careful convincing that it was indeed more fresh than anything I’ve experienced, I ate it. Chewing was barely a necessity, it melted, I loved it. Trust was earned.
So when he offered to bring me eggs produced by his urban yard birds, I accepted without hesitation. I’m able to pinpoint obvious differences between these eggs and retail eggs: smaller, harder shell, the green one. Wow, I totally missed my CSI calling. But other than these subtle differences, are these eggs the same? Absolutely not.
I go through phases in which I eat eggs for breakfast daily. The breakfast means nothing to me, it’s breakfast. But this morning as I ate my eggs, sunny side up on sprouted wheat toast, I smiled. I know how my eggs came to be. I know the yard. I know the farmer. I was a part of the exchange between the farmer and the consumer and there’s something innately cool about being a part of a process in which you’re able skip the man.