From My Head Down to My Legs

Do you remember that old advertising campaign for eggs? You know, the one that said, "I love eggs/From my head down to my legs"...? No? Well, I certainly do, and I have to say that I echo the sentiment. I really do love eggs. Most days, my dinner looks a little something like this.

Not very exciting, maybe, but a scrambled or fried egg is the perfect convenient meal for a Lady Dining Alone. I can't ever remember a point in my life that I didn't love eggs. When I was little, naturally, it was only scrambled, but as I grew older and came to realize the glory of a runny yolk, I started to daydream about fried. One of the best things about eggs, in my opinion, is just how easy it is to make them; Papa Winfrey, who would himself admit that he's no great cook, has been known to whip up quite a few scrambled egg sandwiches. He was also the culprit behind the most infamous egg dish I've ever tried to choke down: The Peanut Butter and Jelly Omelet. It was dinner, Mama Winfrey wasn't around, and the man had to improvise! It was really terrible and, in a rare moment of strictness, he told me I had to eat it. There's also an Old Winfrey Legend that Mom once made him a baloney omelet with similar results. Perhaps eggs are not as forgiving a mistress as I thought.
Those eggs I used to down when I was little had one thing in common: they were white and from a grocery store. And that's how I happily lived my egg life up until a few months ago, when I had an Egg Revelation followed by an Egg Conversion which is now being followed by Egg Proselytizing. My epiphany looked like this.

Farm fresh eggs, one of the biggest joys a lady can find in this life. Completely superficially, the beautiful color is what got to me. Who wants plain ol' white eggs when these lovely brown and baby blue suckers are around? The yolks from truly free-range chickens are oranger, which my grandma attributed to them eating bugs. Who can say? The point is these babies are beautiful.
Most importantly, there's the satisfaction I get in knowing where my food comes from. Our local organic market sells these, but they actually come from a farm owned by my best friend's mom. These chickens work, play, and sometimes run across the road to meet an untimely death just a mile or two from my parents' house. I've seen what they look like, where they live, and how, if you drop one of their eggs on the ground, they will all peck it open and then eat it. I'm not saying chickens are smart animals (they are so dumb), but it is important that they are healthy and, as much as chickens can be, happy. I don't want to get all Food, Inc. on you, but I want my eggs to come from chickens that look like chickens, not chickens with no beaks that can't even stand because their breasts are so heavy.
Eggs from free-range chickens are by no means necessary to enjoy the wonders of a runny yolk smeared over toast. They are noticably different, though, or else I wouldn't be spending my morning waxing poetic about them. But now, what you came here for: egg porn.