Last week my friend Susan asked if I wanted some organic eggs. Uh, who wouldn’t? She is involved with Primrose Farm, a restored 1930s working farm, in St. Charles. The farm has hens, and where there are hens, there are eggs, in this case, a lot of them. They will be sold when the farm opens on Memorial Day, but meanwhile there is a glut. So on Friday, Susan dropped off a shoe box full of eggs. When you are used to cold, anonymous white eggs in styrofoam egg cartons, lifting a shoe box lid and finding warm, creamy, cafe au lait-colored eggs, each slightly different from the other, was somehow a surprise. And Susan has a knack for wrapping things in newspaper, whether it’s a bundle of leeks or a sheaf of rhubarb, and making it look like the most wonderful parcel imaginable. I always save the string. In this case, the eggs were carefully nestled in folds of newspaper. It was strangely moving and calming to see them. Our world is in turmoil, and I was happy to find that for hens, at least, their world is going on the same as ever. And somehow I found this very reassuring.