Yer welcome. So welcome. You have no idea. We ate eggs in Champaign. I did anyway. You ate pancakes. Eggs in ’em. We were an egg’s throw from an iconic sandwich, the Horseshoe, just a few hours too late, cause you know, if you wanna be a hot chick who does not live in a coop, you gotta get your beauty rest. We were not up till morning-that-is-truly-night with a Hangover Horseshoe (it’s a sandwich look it up), greasy-chinned, glassy-eyed, salt-deprived. Nope. We used facial astringent and slept. Ate our eggs at a respectable hour in the a.m.’s. Do so hope I am not setting a permanent pervasive personal trend with that grown-up, eggs-only-in-the-morning thingy. I’m okay with occasionally having to learn about the evening before second or third hand.
I do want chickens. I do, I do, I do. They are illegal, unless you can keep ’em 100 yards from your fence line. One hundred yards is pretty far if you are talking sous-urban fence lines. I feel like pecking holes in the walls over this. Ain’t this the blinkin’ suburbs?? What the *#$%@? Someone sold me a bill o’ goods when they rhapsodized about the absence of broken glass, barred windows, panhandlers and metal-detectors. The picture of bu-cow-lick nirvana is distinctly out of focus without egg layers. The ones who lay big eggs within arms reach.
Getchyerself a few ostriches, the neighbors would welcome a chicken or five. Just enough to give eggs enough for late night fried egg sandwiches with onions. Before I leave this earth I want to wake once more, just once, on a Saturday morning and reconstruct the previous evening from the eggy clues on the stove. We had sandwiches – ohmyachinghead – oh yeah sandwiches – ohmyachinghead – fried eggs Watson – ohmyachinghead – onions, butter, grilled sourdough, drip, splatter, smear, eggs. Eggs! In the middle of the night when you are staggering, elated, inspired, hungry. Hours, at least 3, before the achinghead.
Ya think we could have a few ostriches? Those eggs make a humdinger of an omelet and an ostrich is not poultry. Quiet too.
The Mayberry Sparrow
*It’s a good story, that I cannot tell well. Birds are funny. Birds are funny, but I did not originate that. Apropos of nothing, nothing discernibly about birds, a landlord said it, in a moment of extreme awkwardness. All purpose that remark, and omni-compassing. Funny peculiar. Understood? Understood.