Think of An Egg
by M. J. Iuppa
Dark brown, speckled brown, tawny-rose, sea mist blue. Eggs gathered every day from the nesting boxes in our hen house and brought into the kitchen where we sponge bathe them, one-at-a-time, carefully under the gooseneck faucet’s warm rinse, then set them to dry in a towel-lined bowl. More daylight, more eggs. By summertime, we have the promise of a farmer’s breakfast every morning.
*
Full-bodied black orpington and buff Brahma, sleek Easter egger and Marans; they don’t cluck, they purr and are aloof as cats. Maybe it’s because they sneak up on the porch and help themselves to the cats’ dry food. They circle round the dishes like parishioners at a church picnic, heads tipped in idle conversation, yet their eyes are looking over the dishes carefully ready to pick their fill, which they do while the cats look away.
*
Eggs are much more than the question of what came first. To study an egg’s architecture is to see a world made oval. The dynamic of its shell, both strong and fragile, houses the perfect sun floating in a translucent sea. I think this is why I’m always surprised when I crack open a fresh egg. The yolk’s color is bold and thick and influenced by what a free-ranging hen eats as well as the color of her legs. If pumpkin guts and rind is the farm’s special of the day, then the egg’s yolk will be a deep fiery orange.
*
Every year, we plant zucchini. Is eight too many, four enough? We always end up with more than we can handle. Our hens, with their insatiable hunger, have become the solution to our Zukes Alor! When the zucchini grows to baseball bat size overnight, we split them in half and lay them out in the yard. In less than an afternoon, the hens have whittled the halves into canoes. They even test them out, standing in the hulls, with one foot up on the prows until they tip over. It surprises them, this sudden upset, then they poke around a bit. Since they’re unable to flip the canoes back over, they act like it was meant to happen and nonchalantly walk away.
*
My mother made the best lemon meringue pie. The recipe was a secret, her secret. At the dinner table, we would beg her to tell us, and she would whisper: “When I’m about to die, I will open my eyes and say to all of you at my bedside, the secret to the recipe is . . .” and she’d slowly close her eyes.
“Wait! Mom, what is it?”
“Too late,” she’d quip, “the secret dies with me.”
All of us would laugh because we were all too pie intoxicated to put up a fuss. No doubt, her secret was all in the eggs.
*
Before we began raising chickens, we use to enjoy diner breakfasts. Something wonderful about ordering coffee and the 2 eggs, 2 pieces of toast, 2 slices of bacon for two dollars and twenty-two cents.
“How do you like them?” the waitress would ask with her pad and pen ready.
“Over-easy,” I’d say, watching to see if she’d write anything down. She never did.
In two minutes, she’d slide the heavy white plates under our conversation.
“Anything else?” she’d ask, pouring a bit more coffee.
We’d stare at our plates, at the watery pale yolks and flat bacon, and slightly buttered brown toast.
We could never think of anything else.
Now, I can’t remember the last time we went out for breakfast. We have an orange mini-skillet with a fried egg handle. It makes one perfect egg any time of day. Why go out, when you can breakfast in. That’s our slogan. But truth be told, we’ve become snobs. Nothing compares to organic eggs.
N-o-t-h-i-n-g.
*
Sometimes, while taking my time washing eggs with a soapy sponge, I wonder: what’s the point. My friends, who enjoy convenience, say in their best upbeat tone, “So, you’re really doing it, aren’t you, growing your own food and all?”
Surprised by their doubt, I say, “Yes,” and the conversation suddenly stops. Not because they don’t know what else to say, but because it’s hard to understand the commitment. They cannot imagine why anyone would choose a life that’s full of inconvenience. Yet, the care of chickens—rising early to feed and water them, listening thoughtfully to their cluck & coo, watching their scratch and shuffle before releasing them to their day, is much like our day—full of possibilities—worth the price of eggs.
When I wash the last egg, I stare at its shell as if I were counting its 17,000 tiny pores, then I pass it under the faucet for a final rinse, knowing there will be more tomorrow.
M.J. Iuppa is the Director of the Visual and Performing Arts Minor Program and a lecturer in Creative Writing at St. John Fisher College and a part time lecturer in Creative Writing at The College at Brockport. Most recently, she was awarded the New York State Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Adjunct Teaching, 2017. She has four full-length poetry collections including This Thirst (forthcoming from Kelsay Books, 2017), Small Worlds Floating, Within Reach (2016 and 2010, respectively, from Cherry Grove Collections), Night Traveler (Foothills Publishing, 2003), and 5 chapbooks. She lives on a small farm in Hamlin NY. This lyric essay was first published in Sugared Water.
by M. J. Iuppa
Dark brown, speckled brown, tawny-rose, sea mist blue. Eggs gathered every day from the nesting boxes in our hen house and brought into the kitchen where we sponge bathe them, one-at-a-time, carefully under the gooseneck faucet’s warm rinse, then set them to dry in a towel-lined bowl. More daylight, more eggs. By summertime, we have the promise of a farmer’s breakfast every morning.
*
Full-bodied black orpington and buff Brahma, sleek Easter egger and Marans; they don’t cluck, they purr and are aloof as cats. Maybe it’s because they sneak up on the porch and help themselves to the cats’ dry food. They circle round the dishes like parishioners at a church picnic, heads tipped in idle conversation, yet their eyes are looking over the dishes carefully ready to pick their fill, which they do while the cats look away.
*
Eggs are much more than the question of what came first. To study an egg’s architecture is to see a world made oval. The dynamic of its shell, both strong and fragile, houses the perfect sun floating in a translucent sea. I think this is why I’m always surprised when I crack open a fresh egg. The yolk’s color is bold and thick and influenced by what a free-ranging hen eats as well as the color of her legs. If pumpkin guts and rind is the farm’s special of the day, then the egg’s yolk will be a deep fiery orange.
*
Every year, we plant zucchini. Is eight too many, four enough? We always end up with more than we can handle. Our hens, with their insatiable hunger, have become the solution to our Zukes Alor! When the zucchini grows to baseball bat size overnight, we split them in half and lay them out in the yard. In less than an afternoon, the hens have whittled the halves into canoes. They even test them out, standing in the hulls, with one foot up on the prows until they tip over. It surprises them, this sudden upset, then they poke around a bit. Since they’re unable to flip the canoes back over, they act like it was meant to happen and nonchalantly walk away.
*
My mother made the best lemon meringue pie. The recipe was a secret, her secret. At the dinner table, we would beg her to tell us, and she would whisper: “When I’m about to die, I will open my eyes and say to all of you at my bedside, the secret to the recipe is . . .” and she’d slowly close her eyes.
“Wait! Mom, what is it?”
“Too late,” she’d quip, “the secret dies with me.”
All of us would laugh because we were all too pie intoxicated to put up a fuss. No doubt, her secret was all in the eggs.
*
Before we began raising chickens, we use to enjoy diner breakfasts. Something wonderful about ordering coffee and the 2 eggs, 2 pieces of toast, 2 slices of bacon for two dollars and twenty-two cents.
“How do you like them?” the waitress would ask with her pad and pen ready.
“Over-easy,” I’d say, watching to see if she’d write anything down. She never did.
In two minutes, she’d slide the heavy white plates under our conversation.
“Anything else?” she’d ask, pouring a bit more coffee.
We’d stare at our plates, at the watery pale yolks and flat bacon, and slightly buttered brown toast.
We could never think of anything else.
Now, I can’t remember the last time we went out for breakfast. We have an orange mini-skillet with a fried egg handle. It makes one perfect egg any time of day. Why go out, when you can breakfast in. That’s our slogan. But truth be told, we’ve become snobs. Nothing compares to organic eggs.
N-o-t-h-i-n-g.
*
Sometimes, while taking my time washing eggs with a soapy sponge, I wonder: what’s the point. My friends, who enjoy convenience, say in their best upbeat tone, “So, you’re really doing it, aren’t you, growing your own food and all?”
Surprised by their doubt, I say, “Yes,” and the conversation suddenly stops. Not because they don’t know what else to say, but because it’s hard to understand the commitment. They cannot imagine why anyone would choose a life that’s full of inconvenience. Yet, the care of chickens—rising early to feed and water them, listening thoughtfully to their cluck & coo, watching their scratch and shuffle before releasing them to their day, is much like our day—full of possibilities—worth the price of eggs.
When I wash the last egg, I stare at its shell as if I were counting its 17,000 tiny pores, then I pass it under the faucet for a final rinse, knowing there will be more tomorrow.
M.J. Iuppa is the Director of the Visual and Performing Arts Minor Program and a lecturer in Creative Writing at St. John Fisher College and a part time lecturer in Creative Writing at The College at Brockport. Most recently, she was awarded the New York State Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Adjunct Teaching, 2017. She has four full-length poetry collections including This Thirst (forthcoming from Kelsay Books, 2017), Small Worlds Floating, Within Reach (2016 and 2010, respectively, from Cherry Grove Collections), Night Traveler (Foothills Publishing, 2003), and 5 chapbooks. She lives on a small farm in Hamlin NY. This lyric essay was first published in Sugared Water.
