At the house in the country, Peter is raising chickens.
It’s a small scale
operation. Peter has about a dozen chickens, producing between two and
four eggs a day. It’s as far away from a factory farm as you can get.
But it’s perfect for a family who know the difference between good food
and bad food and like eggs.
And they are eggs like no other. For
breakfast Peter cooks me two, soft-boiled and served with toast. The
shells are like body armour. My gentle tap that normally cracks a
supermarket egg wide open makes hardly a dent and I need a couple more
hard bashes against the side of my plate to get them open. Inside, the
yolks are huge and the sort of deep shade of yellow more often seen on
school buses than eggs.
Once cracked open and running into my
toast, I dig in. I’m halfway through my second egg and revelling in the
rich flavour before it occurs to me that I’m eating them entirely
un-garnished. No salt. No pepper. No hefty drizzle of piri piri sauce.
I’m just eating eggs on their own and they are delicious.