Steele - The Fresh Eggs Daily Cookbook: Over 100 Fabulous Recipes to Use Eggs in Unexpected Ways

The Fresh Eggs Daily Cookbook

Copyright 2022 by Lisa Steele

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by Harper Horizon, an imprint of HarperCollins Focus LLC.

Any internet addresses, phone numbers, or company or product information printed in this book are offered as a resource and are not intended in any way to be or to imply an endorsement by Harper Horizon, nor does Harper Horizon vouch for the existence, content, or services of these sites, phone numbers, companies, or products beyond the life of this book.

A NOTE ABOUT EGG SAFETY: Some of the recipes in this book call for uncooked or partially cooked eggs. Consuming raw or undercooked eggs, such as those in mayonnaise and soft-cooked or poached eggs, may increase your risk of foodborne illness, especially if you have certain medical conditions.

Unless otherwise noted, photography by Tina Rupp

Pulla Bread photo on courtesy of the author

Angel Food Cake ingredients photo on used under license from Africa Studio/stock.adobe.com

Food styling by Cyd McDowell

ISBN 978-0-7852-4543-8 (eBook)

ISBN 978-0-7852-4526-1 (HC)

Epub Edition December 2021 9780785245438

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021940138

Printed in the United States of America

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Information about External Hyperlinks in this ebook

Please note that the footnotes in this ebook may contain hyperlinks to external websites as part of bibliographic citations. These hyperlinks have not been activated by the publisher, who cannot verify the accuracy of these links beyond the date of publication

Dedicated to my chickens, past and present.

CONTENTS

Thin tendrils of sunlight slowly move across the field in the still, gray predawn hours, touching briefly on the dewdrops glistening on pink clover blossoms and white daisies. Only the gentle swoosh of a herons flapping wings can be heard. Then a woodpecker knocks on a pine tree and a chipmunk chides him from a perch hidden high in the branches, as small songbirds trill from their nests, and here and there, bees flit from flower to flower.

Im still asleep in the cozy home on our small Maine farm, where weve lived for the past seven years, after trading a Wall Street life for rural living.

Suddenly, the relative stillness is punctuated by the shrill eer-eer-a-roo of our lone rooster, Sherman. I open my eyes, swing my feet to the floor, grab my jeans and a flannel shirt, and head downstairs. I gaze longingly at the coffee machine as I pass through the kitchen. My first cup will have to wait. Pulling on my boots, I grab a basket and make my way through the wet grass to the chicken coop.

I can hear the chickens softly chattering with each other while Sherman lets out the intermittent, resounding crow. When the flock hears me approaching, the excitement level grows until theres a veritable cacophony inside. I quickly open the small door, letting the chickens out into their yard to quiet them. Then I walk around to the front of the chicken coop and peer inside.

My favorite hen, Miranda, is sitting in one of the nesting boxes and eyes me warily as I approach. Shes muttering, as if to herself. She turns her head, maybe asking for some privacy, then rises into a squatting position, gives a small grunt of sorts, and sighs. I hear a dull thud. Reaching my hand underneath her, I feel a warm egg nestled in the straw. I slide my hand out, gently clutching the egg as Miranda hops out of the nest, clucking loudly, announcing to the world that shes laid an egg. She continues to cackle, as some of the other hens join in her celebratory song, and she heads outside to eat breakfast. As for me, I have the freshest egg on the planet for my breakfast.

Heading back to the house with the egg, I can already taste that first sip of hot coffee and mouthful of egg. Now I must decide... scrambled, fried, maybe poached over toast? Or perhaps an omelet?

My earliest recollection of raising chickens was kneeling with my little brother on our back porch when I was maybe five years old, peering over the side of a large cardboard box. Inside were fluffy baby chicks huddling under a lightbulb for warmth. We named them all, of courseI remember Batman and Robin were two of the names we chose, being big fans of the popular television series at that timeand we loved watching them peck at the ground and chase each other or fall asleep all snuggled together.

But about the time the chicks grew up and went outside to live in the henhouse, we lost interest in them. Raising chickens meant more chores, and what kid wants to clean a chicken coop when she could be out riding her bike or swimming at the town pool? After all, chickens were hardly a novelty. Not only did we have a barn and chickens at my childhood home, but my grandparents also had hundreds of chickens on their farm across the street. So I grew up used to chickens running everywhere.

My recollections of raising chickens arent the most positive. There was the rooster, Bojangles, who would chase my brother and me around the yard every time he got loose. There were the broody hens sitting on their nests, who pecked at our hands so hard when we tried to get the eggs out from under them that we took to wearing oven mitts to do our daily egg collecting. And there was our cat, Mousetrap, who loved to curl up in an empty nesting box and wait for us to bring the chickens their treats of supper leftovers from the night beforehe enjoyed scavenging right along with the chickens.

Oddly enough, I never remember selling any eggs to earn extra money as a kid. I did set up a folding table to sell boxes of handpicked raspberries from the patch in our backyard, and I actually earned enough when I was in first grade to buy the neon orange and yellow bathing suit I had my eye on! I guess maybe the raspberries had a higher profit margin and lower labor cost. (Even at that tender age, I had some accountant tendencies.)

Fast-forward a few decades to a small horse farm in Virginia, where my husband, Mark, and I lived. It was early 2009, and with the recession in full swing, homesteading and living more economically off the land was coming back into vogue. I decided that I wanted goats. After all, we already had the barn and fenced-in pasture. I could make soap and cheese! And who doesnt love baby goats?

Well, Mark was less enamored with the idea (he had visions of goats clomping on the hood of his truck!), so he counter-offered with chickens. One of the guys he worked with had started raising chickens and was regaling the office with stories about them. Im not sure if Mark recalled the accounts of my early days and first chicken experiences, but either way, though I wasnt a particular fan, I figured Id say yes to the chickens and then work on him regarding the goats. Before he could change his mind (or before I could change mine), I grabbed the car keys and we headed to the feedstore to pick out six peeping balls of fluff. As we drove home with our box of chicks, I marveled at the fact that it was the first time in more than twenty years that I had held a chick in my hands.