Turkey Eggs
Movin' to the country... (apparently)
Two weeks ago, we moved house. We now live in Edgewater, Maryland. On Facebook, people from the town I grew up in said, “Welcome home!” and I thought that was odd because I didn’t think I’d been that far away. But that’s the thing about Maryland.
Maybe it’s because the state is nearly cut in half by the Chesapeake Bay. Or maybe it’s a lingering identity crisis of being a Border State. But despite being the 9th smallest state in the union, the various pockets of life in Maryland are very divergent from one another.
For about 20 years, I lived about 35 minutes from my home town. Now, I still live about 35 minutes from my home town, and yet I’ve been welcomed “home.” Strange.
I must admit—where I live now is very different from where I lived a couple of weeks ago. That place is approaching “city vibes” faster and faster each day. This place is quiet, more rural. Case in point: I received a “Rural Customer Delivery” form from the post office.
Even though I’m the one in my marriage who actually grew up “around here”—though we’ve already discussed how that apparently doesn’t mean much in Maryland—my recollections from ages 0 - 21 are faulty at best. Due to his work, Joe knows this area much better than I do, which has me feeling like a fish out of Edgewater.1
Over the weekend, he took us to various garden centers in this area. Many of them are tucked away on back roads; they’re all sparse signage and gravel parking lots. The last one we came to was Riva Gardens and Farm Market—tiny compared to its behemoth competition down the road, Homestead Gardens. I don’t remember what we were looking for (goodness, maybe it’s just my memory in general that’s faulty at best…), but at some point, I stumbled upon the refrigerated and frozen section of the farm market.
And I saw … turkey eggs.
How had I never considered that turkey eggs might be something one buys from a farm market? Turkeys are birds. Birds come from eggs. Birds lay eggs. Humans eat eggs. A delightful “duh” enveloped me, standing there grinning on the other side of the refrigerator door.
I had to have them. I needed to experiment. Quickly, before the wonder evaporated and I once again lost my desire to be in the kitchen.2
I also picked up a frozen chicken pie, a cinnamon brioche loaf, and a four-pack of—wait for it, it’s so worth the wait—raspberry-jelly-donut muffins.
That, along with a few other food items, cost $87. Local ain’t cheap, but at least it’s local.
The next morning, I offered to make us turkey eggs for breakfast. I was so dang excited to see what they’d be like. Shape-wise, they were more oblong and tapered at the end than a chicken egg. They were speckled, too, though I’ve seen my fair share of speckled chicken eggs (just not at the regular grocery store!).
Cracking the shells, I noticed they were a titch sturdier than grocery-store chicken eggs, although that could be due to their rustic origins. I’ve had chicken eggs from a farmer’s market or CSA share that were also strong-shelled.
And when that first egg plopped into the bowl … oh my. The yolk-to-white ratio blew me away. The yolk was substantial, a full sphere of golden goodness as opposed to the flat-backed yellow counterparts of most chicken eggs I’ve come across.
These yolks held their own.
I started whisking—I’d decided to make basic scrambled eggs, to let the turkey-egg flavor speak for itself—and immediately noticed a difference. I had a hard time breaking the super-yolks. What were these yolks made of? An imaginary turkey mama stared at me from the corner of the kitchen, eyes narrowed, a smug smirk on her face. That’ll show you, she gobbled.
As my butter melted in the pan, I applied a considerable amount of elbow grease to the task at hand. My fork whisked and whisked, and finally, with only a few bits of stubbornly unincorporated yolk remaining, I added the mixture to the warm pan.
We have an electric stove here. This was my first time using it. I already miss the precision of a gas stove. I shall make the best of it, though.
The eggs came together splendidly. They looked ridiculously creamy, as far as eggs go. I wondered if I’d used too much butter. As if there is such a thing.
Most of our things are put away, but we’re still using paper plates and bowls periodically. Transitioning back into full-dish mode. I chose two paper plates that I believed to be exceedingly apropos for the occasion:
I’d made three eggs; divided onto the two dessert-sized plates, it nearly covered the turkey printed on them. I grabbed a couple of forks and our taste test commenced.
Richness. That’s all I could sense. Buttery, rich, very filling. These eggs were decadent. Holy moly, I needed something else—anything else—to cut through the gobbly gluttony that was on my flimsy paper plate.
I cut slices of the cinnamon brioche. Egads! I made a mistake! The brioche was far too soft, fluffy, and rich all on its own. I knew toasting it was out of the question—it’d practically ignite as soon as the heat touched the sugar. Joe tried toasting his and proved me very right. I love when that happens, even if it’s accompanied by the scent of charred bread.
I resigned myself to the excess. I knew I wouldn’t be hungry again for hours.
Overall impression: Turkey eggs are luscious, full-bodied, and robust. Kind of like the birds themselves. I wonder how they’d affect a cake, custard, or quiche.
Luckily, now that I live here, I have an opportunity to find out.
P.S. For those of you who are interested, here’s an AI-generated comparison of turkey eggs and chicken eggs:
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Oooh. Good title.
That, friends, is a crucial conversation for another day.