How to find the perfect egg
I used to walk approximately 400feet to my local butcher in Williamsburg for some unmarked, under the table eggs. No label, no branding - just the egg.
Then I moved to what I would quantify as “the country”, I mean, anything after New York City feels like a village - the population is enough to support a bowling alley, a movie theatre and an excellent diner that offers “diet food” - which in this instance is a number of items slathered in cottage cheese.
Yet - when I ventured out after moving, weary from cleaning mysterious goo from the inside of the freezer - all I wanted was two sunny side up eggs on toast and a martini. It was a little after 9 on a Sunday night, I was yet to pick up my rental car and I didn’t factor that living in Catskill meant that people have lives and are not available after 5.30pm. Store after store was closed until - oasis! a familiar sight of a city style looking bodega - sadly with nary a food item with an ingredient list less than 30 in sight I went to plan B. Plan B was rummaging through boxes to find some squid ink pasta that I’d bought months earlier thinking I was going to be fancy.
I fixed myself a martini in a coffee mug and toasted myself and my new life upstate. Except - no gas.
Plan C: I had two handfuls of goji berries, sat on the couch with my cocktail, watched reruns of Friends and called it a night.
Cut to the next day where I walked around and found a Walmart, a Lowes, and an extensive aquarium store. I mean what the F? How can a town this size not have a goddamn supermarket but possess 5 banks. I went to Siri and demanded she tell me the closest market. Price Chopper, 1.6 miles - I had seen it in my travels but thought it must be a discount appliance store. This place was enormous, the aisles so wide, the off-brands so mysterious and enticing. I was severely side-tracked by enormous plastic barrels of cheese balls and towers of 10gallon margarita mix and for a moment dropped my egg obsession.
However, I’m not one to give up and when I saw a posting on Facebook from a local farm offering straight from the hen, eggs. I dm’d someone named Dana and we arranged to meet in the carpark of a thrift store the next Friday. It felt like a very PG drug deal, us both texting to find out where in the 100 car carpark the other person was until she pulled up alongside me, windows slid down, money was exchanged and we each went our separate ways.
The next morning I fired up the (newly fixed) gas and cracked those babies open. Two deep yellow yolks, bubbled whites and crispy edges. Drizzled with Sriracha and accompanied by fresh brewed coffee. They were some of the most satisfying eggs I’ve ever had, probably made more tasty by the unconventional method of purchase.
New York City might have endless varietals of organic kitty litters and 24/7 delis, but I had a farmer who was willing to meet me in a mall for a carton of $4 eggs. New York, you better step it up.