A mate of Dad's brought over a truckload of fresh googies for my parents today.
Pete's a bit hard-boiled but a good egg, really.
And when I say fresh, I mean still warm, just wiped off the poop, the chook is still feeling the after-effects, was that a clucking I heard outside the window, near orange is not the real colour of the yolk, fresh!
You can end up walking on eggshells when you start a discussion on fresh food, it's an eggsplosive topic and some people just can't take a yolk, but I find their lack of humour eggscruciating.
I tried to poach a few for brekky tomorrow morning, but my plan was fried when I had to scramble to find a way to eggstrapolate the carton from my mum's grasp, but I couldn't fit them all in one basket.
That put her in a fowl mood, but shell be right - Mum sees the sunnyside-up eventually.
In fact often she's an absolute cack-leberry.
I can hear you thinking, "Kelly - an oeuf's, an oueuf."
(66 days down. 300 to go)