We ate an omlette for lunch today. It was a bright burnt yellow. The colour of the sun. The eggs came from Marie-Annick on the market. They are hidden treasures, kept beneath the huge wooden stand, gold dust. Softly boiled the white is firm and silky, the yolks a molten lava of cadmium orange. These are the eggs of my childhood. The eggs my tiny child's fingers would touch hard and warm beneath the soft feathers of a bird in the dark bitter stinking darkness of the chicken shed. Eggs, a mystery revealed. I remember being 6 and the first time we ate our own eggs, with our own bread and our own butter, made with the milk from our Fresian cow Steady. Sweet and salty, brown bread like cake, spread pale and creamy, dripping with rich dark yellow.