Peevish Pen

Ruminations on reading, writing, rural living, retirement, aging—and sometimes cats. And maybe a border collie or other critters.

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Location: Rural Virginia, United States

I'm an elderly retired teacher who writes. Among my books are Ferradiddledumday (Appalachian version of the Rumpelstiltskin story), Stuck (middle grade paranormal novel), Patches on the Same Quilt (novel set in Franklin County, VA), Them That Go (an Appalachian novel), Miracle of the Concrete Jesus & Other Stories, and several Kindle ebooks.

Friday, January 23, 2015


I'm no fan of grocery store eggs. They look exactly alike and are thin and runny. I won't even speculate on the factory-farm chickens that produce these inferior eggs. Instead, I buy locally produced eggs that look like this:

Or this:

They're not all the same color or size, though many of them are very large. Instead of pale yellow, the yolks are a rich orange.

These eggs taste wonderful.

To get these eggs, we drive about three miles from home to a farm where the chickens live. It's a self-serve operation. A cooler by the back door contains eggs that were gathered that morning. We return any empty egg cartons we have, select however many dozen eggs we want, and drop the money in a cup. Usually a cat—or even a herd of cats—watches us.

After getting our eggs, we drive out past the henhouses. One flock is turned out during the day.

There's another coop to the left along the driveway. Usually those hens stay in the a, but sometimes they're out, too. Sometimes we have to stop for a chicken to cross the driveway. A few times, we've had to wait for the cat herd to cross the driveway.

So—this is where we get our eggs. After eating these eggs, I don't think I could go back to eating store eggs on a regular basis. 



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