So there I am, in the shower singing a song about a porcupine. I can see you hiiiiding in that Norrrrvay Pine… Just as I step out to dry off, the fair and industrious Trudy walks in. She is about to cook breakfast and has an uncracked egg cupped in her hands.
“Hey…” she says. “This is what we get when we get farm-fresh eggs.”
I look down at the egg. It is brown and small and… Well, I have to do a double-take. The egg has a tupée of sorts, tiny gray feathers stuck to the outside of the shell.
“Now we know!” she says with a broad smile on her face, holding the egg up and waving it about. “Eggs come from laying hens!”