I eat eggs, so why do I care?

Last week a visitor noticed a bird nest just under the gutter on our front porch.  

We don’t typically use the front door, unless we have guests, so I hadn’t noticed it. 

I began to observe that nest and arrived at the assumption that it was abandoned since I didn’t notice any activity or hear and peeping or chirping.

I asked the Legal Dude to remove it, since I remember reading about abandoned nests and the possibility of bird mites migrating into one’s home once the birds are gone.

He said he’d get around to it.

I’m glad he delayed. 

It was raining and windy this morning.

At one point I heard a cacophony of distressing bird calls that caused me to rush to the front windows.

Apparently harsh winds and rain shredded that little nest, leaving bits and pieces strewn across the front porch and lawn. 

Sadly, the nest was not abandoned and four little bitty eggs were also strewn across the front porch. 

I went out with gloves to try and gently pick them up, hoping their parents could somehow... do…something. 

 Alas, each and every egg was smashed. 

I would have felt terrible if the Legal Dude had removed the nest with the eggs inside.    

When I heard the distressing calls, I was in the process of baking bread (a delicious walnut and rosemary bread and my first solo bread baking experience since moving here).

Much later, after rising--quite a wonder to be hold up here at 7,200

Later, as I cracked and smashed eggs for the recipe, I stopped and stared...

I got to wondering: why does my heart weep for those little eggs and their momma, when I willy-nilly crack and smash eggs nearly every day?

It’s given me food for thought (and no, no pun is intended).