Beyonce, Lizzo and Ariana

My hens are playing a blinder at the moment.
Beyonce, Lizzo and Ariana are all laying and that means three eggs each and every day – three exceptional, big-yolked, free range beauties which I do believe, I will never tire of eating.

Nor has the shine worn off finding the eggs in the laying boxes of a morning. As I open the lid of the box and peer into the straw and my eyes alight on the still-warm eggs, it’s as if I’m discovering little egg-shaped treasures – which of course, I am. For almost two years now I’ve been peering and alighting and finding and still the thrill hasn’t diminished.

The quality of the these little treasures is second to none and there is also a measure of gratification to be had from knowing that my own girls’ creations exist at the very opposite end of the spectrum to battery eggs. Also, their freshness is their real forte: Poached or fried or scrambled or crafted into a just-set omelette, they are an ineffable joy, so much so, that I find myself eating eggs on most days ending in Y – cholesterol be damned.

However, with three eggs every day, you kinda have to keep tabs on things. If we go for just three days without eating eggs, there’s nine eggs that need dealing with. Go a full week without an egg and you’ve got 21 of them looking at you from the bowl on the kitchen worktop. They don’t take long in accumulating.

So far, I haven’t had to give too many eggs away, which is why I’m actually considering buying more hens; I probably have the space for six altogether. The thing is: I would like to be able to give more eggs away. Such is their majesty, it would be mighty satisfying to share the love.

I am reminded of times gone past when my father kept hens, as well as ducks and geese and sometimes pheasants. He actually had an incubator in the house for hatching out eggs and he recently reminded me of the following story, probably when I’d been telling him about the girls’ great eggs.

Once upon an earlier time, or so the story goes, myself and my younger siblings had been on a day out at the Ulster American Folk Park when we embarked on some egg poaching.

We were nippers at the time so the quasi- illegalities of our actions didn’t seem to matter.

If you remember the Folk Park from years gone by, there used to be a fair range of poultry flapping hither and thither. Apparently, or so my father reminded me, myself and my brother thought it would be a good idea to raid some nests and take some of the Folk Park eggs home. But rather than end up in our bellies, after we returned home with our pockets filled with eggs, they were donated to the incubator.

Bear in mind, we didn’t know what or who had laid the eggs so we didn’t know what or who would be hatching out.

A month later – give or take a few days – suffice it to say that the feathered menagerie had gained quite a few members, most notably, six black roosters – one of whom turned out to be a bit of a savage.

I have two distinct memories concerning the ferocious black rooster (who for some reason didn’t acquire a name).

First, I remember that you couldn’t be in his vicinity without him attacking you. Even if you were mildly walking along, minding your own business, you might find a black rooster suddenly attached to your leg, spurs digging in with no small amount of viciousness.

Second, I remember plucking the same boy for a Sunday dinner. Tellingly perhaps, I don’t remember eating him.

In the absence of pockets full of pilfered Folk Park eggs, I think I will have to purchase some new hens, legitimately, of course. I already know their names too (or at least I’ve been told what their names are going to be): Brittany, Taylor and Olivia. Can you see the theme running through the names yet?

Now, whilst I’m not going to give you a recipe for this next delight (you’ll understand when you read it), I have come to realise that one of my favourite ways of savouring the ladies’ beauties is: Egg in a cup with butter.

I am acutely aware of course, that egg in a cup merely a nostalgic throw-back to those halcyon days when I was climbing trees, raiding nests and generally getting up to mayhem. However, egg and butter are best friends and when mashed in a cup and spread onto toast, they attain an undisputable celestial quality.

Hard boiled egg into cup. Knob of butter. Pinch of salt. Bash with a knife.

Heaven.