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The Case of the Cursed Egg | Mind Your Dirt
Most mornings you'll find me sleepy-eyed and confused wandering around my backyard in a robe. It's like a scene out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest sans medication time and a mean nurse Ratchet (my all time favorite book by the way, cheers Ken Kesey and all your Merry Pranksters). My dog (and possibly my neighbors) observe this slow-moving and butt scratching beast with an apprehension usually reserved for a schizophrenic having a heated debate with a rusty tin can and a bit of used dental floss. It takes a good hour before I "come alive" and when I do, I'm just grateful that I'm not standing on the roof of the house naked. Not a morning person. Why all this colorful explanation regarding my morning routines? Because the other morning I witnessed something that instantly shook me out of my zombie mode just by the shear uncanniness of it. My Easter egger hen, Mia, had somehow laid a magical mini egg! "What the shit?" said I. "What manner of sorcery is this?". In order to