And now, for something completely different:
Supermarket organics do not impress me.
Overpriced strawberries; pale, bumpy limes; dead milk in its vacuum-sealed package.
I am not moved by your hydroponics, your cage-free chickens (huddled all together.)
Your massive fields of “naturally” sprayed tomatoes, as sweet and juicy as a rolled-up sock.
Give me farm-fresh eggs.
I want brown and tan and cream-colored eggs, speckled with dirt in a second-hand carton. I want eggs with thick shells that break on the second try with a satisfying crack instead of crumpling limply into the pan. I want bright orange yolks from chickens who eat earthworms and marigold petals and scraps from supper, yolks that stand in the skillet instead of spreading. I want eggs from chickens who were named (against our better judgment) and pet and finally, reluctantly, stewed and thoroughly enjoyed.
I want tiny starburst strawberries, barely a bite.
I want tomatoes that still smell of their pungent leaves.
I want root vegetables covered in soil and grit.
I want beef finished with grain in the late-fall frost.
I want corn and wheat that a tired farmer sprayed over and prayed over and walked through proudly, skimming his hands over the tops of the sheaves.
I want milk in a glass jar that’s full of life with cream on top, the kind that comes with a stern warning from the FDA.
Supermarket organics do not impress me. Give me farm-fresh eggs.