I went out in the snow (snow. so spring-like. not.) with the snipers to cut forsythia (which is not actually blooming qua blooming, but there is the suggestion that it might be about to) so that we would have something on which to hang our little egg ornaments, (the tender perennial tree we had been using in years past objected to not being watered while we were away at Christmas, and still hasn't grown any new leaves, although I am still hopeful) and while I was outside I decided to go see if the chickens had laid any eggs, which they hadn't done for the last few days. But today they had--two of them, beautiful brown eggs, so seasonally appropriate-- so I carefully put them in my coat pocket and then cut the forsythia and went inside, totally forgetting I had raw eggs in my pocket, and sat down before taking my coat off. Sigh.
And then I read a very soothing ya book about a young nursing student in New York, imaginatively titled Young Nurse in New York, by Diane Seidner (1967) while my coat dried in front of the wood stove.