I prefer brown eggs. Buying them makes me feel like I could’ve gathered them myself out on the farm, if only I had a farm. Those clone-like logo-stamped white eggs don’t give me the same feeling. Are they cheaper? Yes. But they’re probably manufactured by robot chickens in a solar-powered, air-conditioned warehouse somewhere off in Nevada’s Mohave Desert. I don’t mind paying a premium price for eggs that remind me of grassy meadows, windmills and simpler times.
Of course it’s just a marketing scheme. But it’s a good one. Buying brown eggs makes me feel like I’m supporting small farms run by large families that gather dozens of eggs before the sun comes up. It’s organic. Green. Healthier. And each egg is unique, reminding me of old friends and absent family — Grandma, Papa Dutch, Uncle Bobby, Mom and Dad.
No, I’ve never gathered eggs or milked cows or called in the goats or mucked out the stables. For a city boy, that’s a foreign world. Something you read about in stories. But there they are: brown eggs in the dairy section, supposedly fresh off the farm — which makes me curious about those families, and whether or not their children are still walking five miles to get to school, up a steep hill both there and back again, barefooted, come rain or blizzard.
That homegrown illusion got elevated even more last Saturday when I went shopping for eggs and found a small newspaper-like clipping tucked inside the carton. It had a recipe on it, a cartoon, a “Bird of the Month” photo (a Majestic Maria), and a mini story and photo about egg farmers Matt and Sarah.
After reading the story, I of course wanted more information on Matt and Sarah and their six kids. So I sent an email to the egg company asking if they could get me in touch with the family. But so far, I haven’t heard anything back. Maybe I should give it more time. Maybe they have poor cell reception, or prefer getting real letters stamped and delivered through the post office.
In the meantime, I did an internet search for “Matt and Sarah,” “egg farmer,” “six children,” and “Matt and Sarah’s Dutch Puff Pancakes.” That was the recipe I mentioned. I had high hopes my internet search would provide me with egg-sactly (sorry) the information I was looking for. But of course, it didn’t.
I found information on a Matt and Angela who live on a small working farm with their one son and two dogs and who are more into boarding horses and baking macarons than gathering brown eggs and making pancakes. No doubt I found the wrong Matt. But then again, what if there isn’t a “right” Matt?
What if Matt and Sarah are the AI-generated parents of an AI-generated family that some large egg conglomerate created just to increase profits? I’m so hoping that’s not the case because that would be stooping lower than a snake trying to scratch a belly itch on a worn-out piece of used sandpaper. But that’s where we are — living in unwanted pessimistic times when all we really want is to meet real people doing good things for others just because they can.
Enter Reese and Danyele.
Reese and Danyele don’t have a farm. They have one daughter, two dogs, and a pen full of chickens. I saw the chickens with my own eyes. They produce a lot of brown eggs. Too many for a family of three to ever use. So, Reese and Danyele gave me a couple dozen. Each egg different. Unique. Just like people. Good eggs that help us remember that our glass is always half full, if only we have eyes to see it that way.
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