MY culinary abilities are limited to the poaching of an egg, but nothing can test the worthiness of a shop-bought egg’s claim of freshness better than poaching and most fail miserably under such an exam. By contrast, a home-laid egg’s yolk disappears into the white as if it were chiffon silk with Michelinstar superiority.
As the days lengthen, my dear hens start to lay more willingly, after a few months of well-earned time off. Only the youngest debutante pullets, having been bought last autumn at the age of point of lay, have been laying over the winter, because, in hens, it