Every day, the hens my mom and dad keep in a coop in our backyard spend hours pecking at miner's lettuce and digging for worms, and in the morning, they each leave one perfect, oval egg in the nesting box for us to pick up just in time for breakfast. There is nothing more satisfying than finding a still-warm egg and cracking it into a hot pan with a bit of olive oil. The iridescent white and the vibrant orange yolk shine and sizzle, and the egg begs for nothing but a grinding of pepper. My parents have named their hens. It's hard to keep those names straight, but, boy, are my mom and dad ever grateful for the work they do for them. —Deborah Lehmann, Portola Valley, California