Evidence suggests that eggs produced by feral chickens are more toxic, but no more nutritional, than eggs produced by civilised chickens.
Supermarkets prefer them, however: on the one hand, industrialised naturism isn’t much more expensive than pseudo-bourgeois apartment life; on the other, Aldi can charge, for 15 of its Merevale brand, a whopping GBP2.29 for the former and only GBP1.25 for the latter.
Yet even if there is no longer space in the London Free State, or money in the pockets of its well-read consumers, to allow chickens to scratch around briefly every day in their prison exercise yards, the image remains a beautiful one, and one that I suggest can be maintained, with a minor modification.
Last night I dreamt that I flew over Zane Grey’s great canyons, forests and deserts. This was pleasant enough, and I do it frequently, but this time I was mounted on a great glowing chicken egg, propelled by some mysterious means by a motor inside.
And herein lies the solution.
Let’s not merely dress up what is always essentially battery product in squidgy cardboard, and spray cosmetic poo and bits of synthetic feather onto it. Fools are easily fooled, and we deserve better.
Let’s rather liberate eggs within and without the home: to roll about as they wish, to acquire drone-like functionality that they may light our way and pop into our mouths when we so wish.
This is what God would have wanted.
[
I am surprised that this simple idea is not introduced in More by the incomparable Thomas Utopia of Milk Street in the City. He does mention, however, the socialisation of poultry on his island:
They breed an infinite multitude of chickens in a very curious manner; for the hens do not sit and hatch them, but a vast number of eggs are laid in a gentle and equal heat in order to be hatched, and they are no sooner out of the shell, and able to stir about, but they seem to consider those that feed them as their mothers, and follow them as other chickens do the hen that hatched them.
]
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