Yesterday was International Egg Day. And a good thing too, I suppose, although the egg trade is, as with everything else, fraught with moral and political problems. When in funds I like to buy free range eggs that are sold under the brand-name of ‘Happy Eggs’. I do hope so.
Eggs are symbolic: of a guarded treasure, rebirth, new hope and new life. Boiled, or made into tortilla, they’re a wonderful portable foodstuff. Elizabeth David gives a load of recipes, each subtly different, for the many French ways of cooking eggs. And there is little better in the way of comfort food than egg on toast.
As for eggs in art, the field is limited. I give you, courtesy of Brother Eccles, the maddening character of Humpty Dumpty:
and there are the strange eggs of Hieronymous Bosch:
Poetry, too, does not dwell an awful lot on eggs: And I remember Spain, at Easter ripe as an egg for revolt and ruin, and so on. The Bible, too, is largely silent on the matter, except in a few verses – and nicely here, in the Gospel of Luke:
Follower of Joachim Beuckelaer – Girl with a Basket of Eggs
Note: the title of the post is taken from The Egg and I – the very funny 1945 memoir by Betty MacDonald.