My friend Bill lives with his wife and teenage kids in a 19th century farmhouse on an old working farm in Washington State, about an hour north of Seattle. His wife is a dentist and he is an IT guy but they’re both earthy types and they maintain a large kitchen garden. They also keep a cow and some goats in their cavernous barn along with a pig who they treat like a large Labrador retriever, some ancient turkeys they couldn’t bear to eat and a good size flock of chickens that they raise for their eggs.
In the summer Bill and his wife grow more produce and harvest more eggs than their family of five can possibly eat, so on nice weekends that set up a stand on the edge of their country road and every weekend during the summer there’s a veritable caravan of people from the tony Seattle suburbs of Bellevue and Redmond who will pay top dollar for organic produce and the eggs from free range chickens.
I saw Bill at a trade show in Chicago last week; he and I have worked together for 20 years and I have never understood his fascination with growing his own food. As far as I’m concerned, I have Publix for my staples and if I want wildly overpriced organic produce I have Whole Foods. My entire experience with growing my own food consists of trying to keep one sad Home Depot tomato plant alive long enough last winter to bear fruit; eventually I got so annoyed trying to keep the mockingbirds and iguanas away from it that I threw it in the dumpster.
Bill and I met, as planned, at the hotel’s breakfast buffet. “How’s Green Acres?” I asked him as we got our breakfasts. He sighed.
Apparently it has been a banner year for eggs and his chickens are producing like crazy. Bill is well known for the quality of his eggs which, at this time of year feature yolks that are not yellow but a rich dark orange.
“They’re free range,” he explained over breakfast; “the color of their yolks depends on their diets. Lots of juicy bugs right now.” He grinned, then he sighed again. “I have to warn City Folk about the color,” he told me.
“Did you really just say ‘City Folk’?” I asked him, but he ignored me.
“People see orange eggs yolks and freak out. I’ve actually had people throw the eggs away and demand refunds,” he told me.
“Can you believe how stupid people are?” I said and he shook his head in disgust. I did not tell him that the first time he gave me a dozen fresh eggs and I saw the orange yolks that I threw the entire dozen away
Then last week one of his regular customers from Bellevue bought several dozen eggs on Saturday to serve for a Sunday brunch to her Garden Club, and when she opened one of the eggs an embryonic chicken came out.
“What happened?” I asked.
Bill sighed. “She totally freaked out,” he said; “right at her Garden Party.” He took a bite of his granola; I was glad I had a yogurt. “She threw the eggs away and called the Police.”
“The Police?” I asked and Bill nodded grimly.
“She basically accused me of eco-terrorism. I had to explain to the Police that the rooster got loose.” He took an agitated sip of orange juice. “This is what roosters and chickens do,” he said. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.” He sighed again. “Clearly I was wrong,” he said.
Now Bill has been blacklisted and no one from Bellevue will buy his eggs. “These are all people who claim they want natural, organic, free range food,” he said. “Go figure.”
“Now what?” I asked.
“We’re eating lots of quiche,” said Bill