Most of the year, clients pay my lawyer husband in the official currency of the United States and its overseas territories, i.e., the American dollar. That makes it convenient for paying our mortgage and associated household  expenses.

But periodically, most often in December, different currencies appear. Expressions of friendship and gratitude, they take the form of the handmade and the homegrown. My pantry and fridge bear the evidence.

Two long sticks of venison sausage. A jar of raw honey. Pecans from a gardener’s tree. Tins of cookies. Pickles. Black walnut jelly and more; each gift unique, lovely, and appreciated.

My husband came home from work Thursday evening, setting a paper bag carefully on the kitchen counter. “Fresh eggs,” he said. “They just, uh, came out yesterday.” (He doesn’t have that homesteader lingo down, but I knew what he meant, and I was delighted.)  Someone who keeps backyard chickens wanted to express thanks in a personal way, and now my egg supply is replenished with fresh, brown ova with yolks the color of a summer sun.

Breakfast this morning was one of my favorites: a soft-boiled egg sprinkled with fine sea salt, with bacon and buttered whole grain toast on the side, and hot tea to drink. Ordinarily, six minutes in gently simmering water yields an egg with a firm white and a semi-solid yolk that oozes, but that’s when the egg is refrigerator-cold. The egg pictured above hadn’t yet been exposed to the chilly clime of my ice box, so it cooked faster.

And it was delicious.

Feeling all little-house-on-the-prairie over here.