Readers may remember this tree and my ambivalence about getting rid of it:
Well, the drought this summer has finally gone and done it in and I find that my ambivalence about it has done gone as well. So with a three-day weekend staring me in the face, I decided it was a good time to do the dirty deed and dig it up.
But when I went to water it in (you should never, ever try to dig in west Texas dirt without watering it first; failure to do so could break a shovel), I found these among the suckers at its base:
Now, the Big Walu and I don’t do any golfing, and as far as I know, the schnoodles don’t either, so I’ll admit to being baffled at first as to what they were doing under the tree. But I am a trained naturalist, as you well know, and it wasn’t too many minutes before it hit me what was really going on here.
These must be squirrel eggs!
Yes, that’s right. My arch frenemies have gone all broody on me and started hiding their eggs under trees. I have read about this in books, but have never actually had the good fortune to see it for myself in the wild. What a coup this is indeed.
Now, I’ve been reading a lot of posts lately, such as this one by Karen at Greenwalks, about how good fresh eggs taste, and they’ve made me so jealous I just want to spit like a camel. As y’all know, I’ve wanted some chickens of my own for just about the longest time, and so all these posts about fresh eggs merely serve to torment me. But when I found these gems under the tree, I knew I had a chance to experience a little fresher-than-fresh egg nirvana of my own.
Frying up the eggs:
I like my eggs on dry toast so as to fully taste their eggy goodness:
Here is a picture of me eating the eggs:
Oh, sorry. I think the camera slipped a tad. Here’s a better shot:
No, that still didn’t get it. Let’s try one more time:
Ah, yes, there we go. I thought I could detect a hint of pear layered with a soupcon of grassiness. In all, they were delightful, if a bit on the bouncy side, and everything a fresh egg is cracked up to be.