I lugged myself out of bed and into the dark and rainy morning to stand in an egg line. Yes, I am one of those. An egg addict. Just say no, because once you've tasted a soft-boiled egg from a pastured hen, there is no going back. My source is the Skagit River Ranch
stand at the University District Farmer's Market
. In order to get the eggs, one must be at the market when it opens, at 9am. I do not live nearby, hence the setting of the alarm last night, and when it rang, the early morning reassessment of my life and my desire, no, my need
for these eggs.
I saw a long line. I got at the end of the long line and asked the goretex couple ahead of me, "Is this the egg line?" Both turned and grinned at me and we started talking food. They too are egg-driven. He works in the restaurant biz, and did not go to bed until 2am. She is going to cook her first ever Thanksgiving turkey. I told them about rendering lard. I was afraid they were vegetarians, but they leaned in, the rain pouring down all around us, as I described how I had used the crockpot. The man in front of them leaned in as well. I am not alone. We are all egg-centrics, locavores, serious about the taste of our food.
I had thought, when I parked the car and made my way down the sidewalk toward the market, that the heavy rain would thin the crowds. Not bloody likely. Those booths with large tents did the best business. After I had the eggs safely in my bag, I bought a tree of brussels sprouts, a bunch of carrots with tops, and beets with greens attached. I will saute the beet greens with garlic and finish with vinegar. Supper. The eggs, well, those will be soft-boiled, shelled, and sprinkled with salt and fresh cracked pepper. I will make crisply buttered toast. Ah, breakfast tomorrow morning will be good.