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.