Food Eggs are eggs. As far as I've always known, eggs are eggs and don't change much from place to place, supermarket to farmer market. Some are evidently larger than others or last longer in the kitchen (to fridge or not to fridge?) and yet here's The New Yorker to dissuade me from my folly. David Darlington describes the kind of mania which takes hold when you find and egg which everything your wildest dreams might comprehend:
"Let me be clear: I’m not talking about just any eggs from the farmers’ market. Several venders there sell eggs; all are better than the ones from the grocery store, and some are still available in winter, even if you arrive after the market opens. I’m referring to eggs from Riverdog Farm, which, all of us in line agree, are of a different order. Technically they come from the Capay Valley, forty miles northwest of Sacramento, but as far as we’re concerned their origin is APIAU: A Pre-Industrial Agrarian Utopia. Where you live, there might be a farmer’s market that sells similar eggs; you might even collect APIAU-type eggs from chickens you raise yourself. But to us, Riverdog eggs—whose rich, earthy, pudding-like yolks are more orange than yellow, especially the laughable-if-it-weren’t-so-depressing excuse for yellow in eggs from the grocery store, which taste like nonfat milk as opposed to whipping cream—are unique. So unique that they cost eight dollars a dozen, and in winter each customer is limited to only a dozen—and, in particularly lean weeks, when the chickens are especially indisposed, encouraged to take only half a dozen. (To which we reply, “Dream on.”)"
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