A few weekends ago we went and visited my in-laws. Arriving a bit before noon, Grandma G told the kids that her three young hens had recently begun laying eggs. The kids followed her outside to the hen's favored laying spots, didn't find any eggs immediately, then proceeded to play around the nesting sites until the eggs magically showed up. A few hours later, after much reminding that the hens didn't want to be bothered during their efforts, followed by some quiet time inside, the hens laid their gems. The kids got to collect their first farm fresh eggs, rushed inside like it was easter, then following instructions, wrote the date on them. The following day, about mid-morning (after not nearly so much reminding about disturbing the hens), they collected three more. "Mommy, feel this egg I just got. Its still warm!" 
We were lucky enough to bring a few home. Quite possibly the tastiest damn eggs I have ever had, they had the darkest yolks I've ever seen. I had suspected as much cooking them up "on the farm" but when I fried them up at home in my orange handled skillet, it just begged a picture for comparison. And I am positive this was one of the paler ones!I can't wait to eat a few more of these beauties. Until then, I'll be dreaming of my own little urben homested* chickens right here on oaktown.
*Apparently spelling this correctly will get you in trouble these days, as some folks have recently trademarked this term and a few others, and it is now no longer part of the modern, well-intentioned, ever-growing vernacular of the movement! Hell, maybe I'll get a reminder for even using a poor substitute.
