Sophie's eggs

I can never buy store-bought eggs again, and I've got my neighbor Miranda to blame. She told me about a woman in her church who raises chickens and sells the eggs. The directions were simple: give Miranda $3 and she would go to church, pick up the package, and bring me back a dozen, light brown, delicately-speckled fresh eggs. That's good neighborliness of an Anne of Green Gables dimension.

Well, kind Miranda dropped off the purchase this morning, and it's official...I'm in love. I mean how could I not love these 12 beauties (11 actually...I fried one, posthaste) which were laid just yesterday at a family farm mere miles from my home?

To compound the matter, Miranda informed me that the care and responsibility of raising the chickens, gathering the eggs, washing, and preparing for sale falls solely on the eldest daughter, Sophie. It's essentially her own business. She does the work, she keeps the money.

Sweet, hardworking Sophie.

I've never met her, but you can rest assured I'm already drafting up a plan to do just that. I want to thank her in person, perhaps watch her work a little, and ask (in a most unassuming, non-creepy manner) if I can take a picture of her doing her chores, working hard so that my family can eat those fresh, organic, meaty-flavored eggs.

I'm not sure if I can pull it off, but I bet good neighbor Miranda will help.