“It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird; it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We must hatch or go bad.” —C.S. Lewis

Greetings Dear Ones,

When I love someone (or several someones) very much, I make them a special batch of pollutants called “homemade scones,” which consists of taking a bowl of several kinds of refined white powders like salt, sugar, glutinous flour, and baking powder and adding heavy cream and currants to it. I slather the dough in melted butter, bake it at 400F until golden, and serve up warm, mildly toxic, love-from-home in a basket, wrapped in a pristine Scottish tea towel. Of course, according to any health minister worth her salt (or gluten-free flour) it’s just about the worst thing you can do for someone you love (“it’s so inflammatory!”) but for some reason, a vegan broccoli salad, though infinitely better for one’s colon, does not translate affection in quite the same way.

So! When I came home from the shop last week and discovered that I was OUT of most of the necessary white powders, and the cream, and had not enough of the requisite currants, I panicked. I was going to a concert in Boston and wanted to bring the band some homemade goodies (“You mean some homemade crimes against the pancreas,” says Prudence) to show my love and appreciation for their music and also for their particular kindness towards a young flute-player I adore. The band leader had loaned him a flute of particular value and had been incredibly generous with his time, tutoring, and encouragement. It wasn’t really my place to do so, but I wanted to transpose my appreciation into baked goods on the lad’s behalf. I thought this was a Wonderful, Amazing, Unique idea.

Only now, I couldn’t do it. There wasn’t time to get to the nearest grocery store AND bake AND shower. What to do?

“NOT showering is out of the question,” said Prudence. “Don’t even think it.”

“You could just say “thank you,” said the Hermit of Hermit Hollow, who was also attending the concert. “Words are enough. Gratitude is always welcome.”

WHAT???

I immediately disregarded this information. Some words have power, it’s true. Words like “No,” and “Whoa,” and “I beg your pardon ma’am but your shopping cart is over there, where you left it; this one’s mine…” But when you want to show someone you are TRULY appreciative and admiring, you serve them something, right?

“Absolutely!” said the sheep, munching happily as I flung hay into their manger. “Food is what love is all about! Sharing food is deeply communal and significant. It means someone is part of your herd, your tribe, worthy of your limited time and resources. Words might mean something, but they are also cheap. Food, especially these days, is not cheap. Words coming out of someone’s mouth are not as powerful as food going into someone else’s.”

I agreed. But what to do?

I fed the cats. I watered the oxen. I checked the clock. There was barely going to be time to shower at this point.

I went into the hen house. The proud little pullets had filled a nesting box with fresh eggs. They were gorgeous—whites, blues, and browns from all the different breeds of hens. Ever since February 15th, with the return of the daylight hours, I have been finding ever more eggs. Outside, the seasonal battle rages. Icy winds howl and roar yet in the silent nests are delicate oval signs of Renewal. Life goes on. Something soft and warm and fluffy will triumph over this brutality in the end. We just need to wait (and keep stacking firewood by the back door). Old Man Winter and the Spring Maiden are locked in their annual mortal-combat—mud wrestling all up and down the driveway, leaving huge brown ruts that freeze then thaw and try to suck the tires off the truck as I drive. She wins a round and the temperature soars to 50F and we all run around in T-shirts like giddy peasants told that mead is now half price. Then He shakes his beard and the snow covers the cattle again. We wear our coats like heavy chains as we endure a series of “Springs of Delusion” followed by crisp spankings from an irritable Jack Frost.

I fill my denim skirt with the booty of Hope and head to the house with pink cheeks. Inside, I look at the eggs. What’s more delicious than a boiled egg with a dash of locally made Vermont hot sauce from the co-op? Who needs scones? I could bring boiled eggs! That’s not crazy, is it?

I call my son to find out. He is on tour in Vancouver with the band “Socks in the Frying Pan.” The guys in the car are quick with opinions. Two out of three say it is a bloody brilliant idea. The third thinks I am mad. The Hermit of Hermit Hollow is on his side. “Yep. Totally mad.”

“Please do it!” insists my son. “I would kill for some boiled eggs and hot sauce right now. I wish our fans would bring us boiled eggs. We get baked goods every night. People are so kind! They are always bringing us cookies and brownies and every kind of sweet. But it’s too much.”

I had no idea this was even “a thing.” Other people bring baked goods to shows? Are these pot-luck house concerts?

“No,” he says. “People are just really kind. They think we need goodies for the road. Seriously, bring the eggs if you want to do something nice. I get it that food is your love language. But it’s a lot of people’s. Trust me, that band is already getting a lot of baked goods. Be You but with a Vermont twist. That’s even better.”

“She’s MAD!” screams his Irish colleague, cackling with glee. “Who ever heard of turning up at a concert with a load of boiled eggs?! Only in America…”

“Just do You,” says my son, before hanging up.

“Funny how being ‘YOU’ is just the result of being disorganized and having an ill-stocked pantry,” observes Prudence.

“Yes, but I happen to have a delightful abundance of farm fresh eggs,” I say defiantly out loud to no one. “That is also ME.”

The whole way through the concert, with a carton of boiled eggs between my feet, the Hermit of Hermit Hollow keeps whispering “It’s not too late to turn back. No one will ever know you brought these eggs if you just keep them in your basket and take them home again. It can be our little secret.”

“But how will I show my appreciation?” I hiss out of the side of my mouth, trying to be discreet.

“Money,” he says. “You bought a ticket. You could buy a CD, you could buy ALL their Cd’s. You could clean out the merch table. I’m pretty sure they prefer to be thanked in purchases made with cash.”

“But… I don’t have cash,” I pointed out. “I just have eggs. This is my widow’s mite. It’s eggs or nothing.”

After several encores to an incredible performance, the band finishes their show, sells their shirts and merch, says their farewells and prepares to make the short march to the nearest pub.

It’s now or never.

I grip the little carton of boiled eggs (one had fallen and cracked so there were now only eleven to the dozen) and make my way to the edge of the stage. I had tied a little note for the flute player and a bottle of hot sauce to the carton with a scrap of tulle from a wedding gown I had altered.

To my surprise, there were a number of middle-aged women clutching a variety of baked offerings in their hands, all waiting to speak with the flute player. Any pastor at a church community bake sale would have been delighted to have so many contributions! He grinned at his congregation. “Love” (“and tooth decay!” adds Prudence) was coming at this band in every kind of muffin, cookie, biscuit, or scone one could imagine.

“Haven’t you learned by now? You’re never the only nut job,” says Prudence, “more’s the pity. However, you DO seem to be the only nutter with eggs.”

Well, the band were very gracious about the baked goods in general and the eggs in particular. The flute player expressed sincere delight, especially given the fact that they all had to be on the road again by seven o’clock the next morning and there wasn’t going to be time for breakfast. “These’ll give us a wee bit of protein,” he said, smiling at the eggs.

I wound up feeling very glad that I had given what I could. Instead of “chickening out,” the chickens and I “chickened IN.” I hope it was a Good Thing, though of course sometimes I doubt it.

“What if you set off a trend of people turning up at concerts with sacks of rutabaga, or spare turnips they happened to have on hand?” Prudence wants to know. “Since when does an Irish concert mean it’s time to clean out the larder and see what you have at least eleven of?”

Of course, if you are someone who lives with your own version of “Prudence Thimbleton” in your head, you know what it is like to question your every motive—every desire to love, to serve, to bake, to give…and then wonder if you are actually being what the young people call “Extra” i.e. “too much.”

“Giving is a form of asking,” says P. “It’s never as simple as you think.”

Are YOU being/doing too much as a result of feeling you are “not enough”? These are ideas that need Mending just as much as any pair of pants with holes in them.

Are warm smiles and grateful thanks enough? Absolutely. That’s what I got in return for the eggs.

And it was Plenty. (Let that be a lesson to me!)

If you’re going to be Weird, go Big. Go with eleven boiled eggs if that’s all you’ve got to offer the world on a given day. Just do YOU. You know it’s a little mad. Do it anyway. It works out just fine in the end. Givers and Receivers are here to teach each other what we need to learn.

I wish I could give each and every one of you a fresh egg and some Vermont hot sauce. (Unless of course you are vegan, in that case, just the hot sauce!) But since I cannot, please except my simple and sincere thanks for your Good Work. I LOVE that there is so much kindness (and low-key musical-muffin-making) in a world I sometimes think is beyond repair. It’s not. Keep Mending, my Darlings!

With Sew Much Love,

A wee bit cracked but Yours aye,

Nancy