I spent Thursday on a private farm about forty-five minutes outside Boston. Green, lit up by the golden afternoon sun, stretched out in front of me in every direction and the air… it sounds so dumb to say, but it really was fresh.
The goats were busy chewing grass, but they stopped and nuzzled me when I stretched out my hand. They weren’t too interested when they realized I didn’t have snacks for them.
I was told I could go into the chicken coop if I wanted. Absolutely not. I liked having the wire fence between those pointy beaks and me. The hens roamed free and came a little too close.
At the very end of our day, I had one soft-boiled farm egg, almost as an afterthought. The 1½ hour egg at Stir had a creamy, viscous yolk. This one was cooked for five minutes on the stovetop and the yolk was just barely firm. Different, for sure, but so good. There’s no photo. I ate it too fast.
We drove back into Boston late. After a day on the farm, Back Bay at 11pm seemed wild and noisy and bright. And really, Back Bay is none of those things.
Yesterday, I woke up with huge, swollen mosquito bites all over my body. They should really be called welts. On my ribcage, my calves, the back of my neck. They’re my proof that I wasn’t in Boston for a day.
And, sitting last night at the outdoor bar at Legal Seafoods in Harvard Square, the goateed guy to my left told me about a 70-minute egg he had just had.
It’s the summer of the egg. I called it first.