... I have already narrated the family mania for eggs and decades the quest to unearth, literally, the best-of eggs in the heart of the Cevennes valleys and scrubland Gard.
I have of my childhood memories of golden eggs, the intensity of yellow-related, according to family legend, food chickens: paler with wheat, with corn darker. Today, we can assay the color yellow on a charter defined in terms of consumer expectations with turmeric in the diet of the chicken. It's not so bad if one believes the virtues attributed to this root.
Last week, I listened to a broadcast on France Inter Isabella Giordano: people of 60 million consumers stubbornly maintained a blind test of eggs from all sources, farm, organic, outdoor, etc. ... had shown no difference in taste.
I can not believe, how could we perceive much difference in terms of flavor between asphyxiated chickens fed meal I do not know what soy and chickens fed natural grains, peelings from the kitchen and worms ground under the light or air Languedoc sharp oxygen Valley and French do not feel at the eggs? However
quite plausible that the degree of happiness or stress of the hen, notions sum all anthropomorphic influence over our conscience that the nutritional value of eggs. Although, if we admit that the chicken has a psyche, it should be connected to the soma ...
course meal of fish have been abandoned, I remember the chickens and eggs disgusting that we ate in England in the early 70s, and also eggs filthy Indian chickens pecking the filth (although the tandoori chicken "bicycle", thin and muscular like a marathon runner, remains one of my fondest memories taste a night of monsoon in Delhi ...) I
These eggs taste so happily in the Cevennes would taste than of nostalgia?
I've never eaten goose eggs this morning as they crossed the olive market but fond memories of the taste of eggs that my mom brought guinea sometimes.
Every morning, his whole life, my grandfather ate three eggs cooked in a pool of oil it pumped with bread (peanut oil, we were the only family in the country not have olive trees but that's another story), with a swig of vinegar in the pan that stung the eyes. He did, however, never been diagnosed with a surplus of cholesterol. By a winter's day 85, while attacked its 96th year, finding it a little woozy, my father asked, "do you want me to make you eggs?". It acquiesce.
My father made him cook eggs that did not end, for the first time in his life:
"Déqué yo?" asked my father
"Oy's"
"Concha tee!" *
My grandfather went to bed, closed her eyes and died.
* "What, is he?"
"I sleep"
"Lie" That
Occitanists forgive me for the rough transcription.
