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First off let me say an egg is just about my favorite thing to eat, and I feel its preparation is oh so very personal. There are people who can sit down and order a Grand Slam, along with a cup of watery random coffee, and then, well, slam it. They are out the door fast then, scraping their chair, no thought or regard for the egg or where it came from, the chicken who so nicely laid it, the pig who was even more committed as the saying goes, the hand who made the bread to be toasted, and the set of hands who prepared the entire dish to be consumed. They are not looking back or considering, not really tasting or enjoying, the egg, the bacon, the toast, the butter, the color of the plate  it all sat on, waiting, waiting to be enjoyed, to be honored.

No this is not going to be a diatribe on conscious consumption, just a gentle reminder that food comes from somewhere, and that somewhere is not the supermarket. No.

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There are those souls who raise the chickens, sing to them as they scatter their feed, people who muck out the pens of those rooting, muddy pigs, chatting with them as they work, people who so very carefully select the ingredients to make a fine, fat loaf, just out of the oven. These people are passionate, these people love what they do, and the animals and their offering must be honored. Whew. Okay. I said it. Yes, sourcing, preparing and eating can be an act of worship, a thing of holiness, and includes the animal, the baker, the cook and yes, the eater. In the beginning, God handed it all to us, saying “I’ve given you every sort of seed-bearing plant on Earth. And every kind of fruit-bearing tree, given them to you for food. To all the animals and all birds, everything that moves and breathes, I give whatever grows out of the ground for food.” And there is was. (Gen 1 :29-30).

I’ve always had an awareness of the source of what went into our fridge, freezer, cupboard shelves and ultimately, our mouths. When we were small we lived in a small town on the Great Lakes, Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. My parents bow-hunted deer and pheasant, my dad and his buddies fished the frigid waters, my mother made our bread every Friday night, and she and her friends canned and baked enough to stuff a big chest freezer apiece each summer. We had a garden, which blows my mind now that I think of it, since summer in Northern Ontario lasted for about three weeks it seemed.

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Each spring our family piled into a white and rust colored Jeep Cherokee and drove to St. Joseph’s Island to see the sap running, swill the fresh maple syrup, and lug home the heavy cans, enough to last for a year. We got our first taste of raw milk from a family friend who had a dairy, and squealed at the fat white layer of cream, which became the prized crown of our steaming Cream of Wheat. The corn we boiled for dinner came from another friend’s land, farther down Second Line, quickly picked just before dinner and shoved into a brown paper grocery bag. While my mother made dinner, my sister and I would head outside to shuck on the front steps, the concrete cool beneath our bare feet.

We knew our meat did not come from a Styrofoam jungle, our fish from plastic bag land, and our milk from a place where rows and rows of cartons sat, waiting for someone to buy them. We knew. We knew an animal gave up its life for us, as we watched our dad pluck feathers off a bird in the basement, or clean a fish with his boning knife. We knew. And we were grateful. And we said as much when we held hands at the table each night.

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So when I get to make an egg from my friend Tom’s chickens, I try to honor the hen by preparing her egg the way I think eggs taste best. Just this side of done, with the creamy golden orange yolk still a bit loose, the whites cooked through. My mother used to make us eggs like this, served in a pink egg cup. We felt like princesses. The bacon I love most right now comes from pigs raised with dignity, at Niman Ranch. The smoky aroma smells like a campfire, the taste is unlike any bacon I’ve ever eaten. It is a joy. My toast is from bread we’ve made ourselves, or bread from a local bakery, like Truckee Sourdough. All of these things I prepare, with care and love. And all of it I eat with gratitude, hands open and thankful.

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Soft Boiled Local Eggs with Niman Ranch Bacon and Toast

2 local eggs (not as hard to find as you think…ask around)

2 slices Niman Ranch bacon

2 slices ciabatta

butter

kosher salt and fresh black pepper

fresh fruit for garnish (I love raspberries)

Make your bacon the easy and best way, by baking it like Joe suggests. Less mess and less shrinkage. Place the eggs in a small pot (I have my grandfather’s little copper pot for this use). Cover with cold water and set over high heat. Bring to a boil, then set a timer for eggsactly (had to!) 4 minutes and 30 seconds. Meanwhile, toast and butter the bread. When the timer goes off, remove the hot eggs from the boiling water and rinse with cold water. Crack the shell in the middle and scoop out the egg with a spoon into a small dish. Salt, pepper and butter the eggs. Eat right away. If you want to make someone feel better, show them you love them or just want to share, make them this dish. They will be grateful.