Eggs, Then and Now

I know... I'm not a food writer but if this year is anything, it is a year of broken rules, with noses peaking out above masks, begging to be honked, and work blending with home life - whether working from home or work being replaced by only home life. We've been in years of broken rules, actually, but I digress. 

I read these beautiful words by Crystal Wilkinson, and partway in I recognize so many hallmarks of my own family food that I'm once again wondering if my people have Appalachian roots. But perhaps it's just the country of us all, the shared roots of people who know how to get by without relying on the outside world. We all know that nearly nobody can do that anymore, either because of the connections they've come to rely on, or the skills they've lost. And yet, as we've come to know that, we're once again striving to find it, again. 

So here I sit. Living closer to where I grew up than I have for the past 20 years. Further in other ways. Trying in many ways. Scratching along, trying to turn this urban yard into an urban oasis of fruits, vegetables, chickens, bees, magic. Learning the things I never learned from the family who knew them from before they could remember. I remember my great grandma's chickens. My siblings don't remember those, really. My mom reminisces about the fresh cow's milk when she visited her grandparents. I tell my spouse about growing a garden in a space that was once the dumping ground from the furnace being careful of burned rocks and broken glass, while we garden in our urban space with gloves to avoid the ever-present broken glass that plagues a neighborhood which has experienced the up-times of big houses that were grand and down-times of big houses that were once grand. I take joy in my chickens, who I imagine are more doted on than Grandma Millie's. I bring in eggs, right now one-at-a-time amid the cooling, darkening days, and we cherish them in an egg holder on the counter. I have a sudden flash of the old fridge in the little shed at Grandma Millie's, where the cartons of eggs were stored, waiting to head to their final waiting place (all of our refrigerators). I plot out what I'll do with each egg, cherishing the ways that I'm able to incorporate a little bit of something I had a hand in making happen with my store-bought ingredients that get delivered to my doorstep. Baking things. Cooking things. Ordering takeout.

It's a strange life we've all inherited. And it's a strange life we're all creating. 

May we be just a little closer to our food, who grows it, raises it, sells it, prepares it. The less we take all of this for granted, the closer we are to a just world.