If you discount the pterodactyl, the largest flying creature to have traversed our skies, then, the ostrich would be the largest avian species we know.
As a tween, I had seen a flock of them in the wild, in the dust-swept Swazi savannah. Their long, slender necks, stooped as if in humility, the birds ambled with poise, across the narrow African country road. Our gleaming white Ford Cortina halted deferentially, to allow them passage.
They crossed my path, once again.
The sight of shiny off-white ovals, the size of a rugby ball, in a posh farmer's market in Manhattan, caught my attention. Drawn to them by their sheer dimension, M and I eased through the crowds of holiday shoppers to the booth to investigate.
On a handwoven basket lay half a dozen ostrich eggs, solid, sturdy, and confident. Their finely pitted surfaces, pronounced by a light sheen, made them a tactile delight.
Roughly three pounds in weight, and eight times the area of a hen egg, there is clearly nothing paltry about this poultry. Their shells pose a formidable resistance to cracking, I hear, needing the aid of a hammer.
I do not have the heart to make one into an omelette. A few days earlier, however, we had bought a pack of half dozen duck eggs on a whim, and deviled them.
If eggs could represent the solar system, then, ostrich eggs would represent Jupiter; chicken eggs, the Earth; and quail eggs, the Moon. Duck eggs would stand in for Mars.
Though only slightly larger than regular chicken eggs, they felt sturdier. The yolk, denser, offered resistance to scooping, clinging to the inner membrane of the matte shell with a strong grip. In taste, it was creamier, smoother.
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