The Devil's Larder

12

EGGS, THANK HEAVENS, are still plentiful, though not cheap. We buy them sanctioned with the guarantee, printed on their cartons, that:

These eggs have been produced by hens that are

Protected from extremes of heat and cold;

Free from hunger and thirst;

Free to range and forage on green pasture from dawn to dusk;

Free from pain, injury and disease;

Free from fear and distress;

Free from discomfort;

Free to express themselves.

In these hard times, in these slow months between the winter and the rain, we are reduced to sharing eggs, a three-egg omelette for the six of us, fried eggs divided into two or three for sandwiches, a family meal of rice with grated cheese and a single egg for flavouring, or soft-boiled eggs, two children to each spoon. We have developed ways of making do.

We sit at night around the single gas ring in the kitchen, our plates wiped dry with bread, discussing endlessly the greater times ahead, how our misfortunes cannot last for good. We dream of work and cash and ranging free. The day will come when there is sunshine in the yard, when all our offspring will be well.

We stay at home and contemplate the life of hens.