See the yellow? or Runny goodness!

I used to hate eggs. Not all eggs; if you mixed in enough cream and made them into pillowy pale Easter yellow morsels that could be wrapped inside a smoked and crispy piece of bacon, fat and crumbled charred bits clinging to my fingertips after inserting said packet of meaty perfection between my lips, well, I was OK with those eggs.
But fried eggs? Poached eggs? Sunny side up or soft boiled?
Gag.
Eggs over disgusting.
Runny yolks were a plate of raw puddled flesh oozing around infecting my whole wheat toast and (precious smoked in the High Sierras) bacon.

Then I grew older and more firm (in my opinions, my laughlines, not my belly) and more recently eggs grew to my liking in the softer form (but not younger- you can't get much youthful than eggs). I started to crave English muffins soaked in the gooey yellows of yolk and hollandaise. (Someone teach me to poach an egg without turning it to egg drop soup, please?)
To know the difference between Sunny Side Up and Over Easy.
To experiment with shirred and basted varieties nestled next to buttery toast and salty roasted fingerling potatoes.
To actually eat the yolk of hardboiled eggs instead of just the gelatinous white.

I was becoming adventurous and mopped up the mess diligently, but the true love of yolks really came to fruition when the chickens arrived. Brighter than dandelions and richer than clotted cream, the Maine ticks and grass tips and olive tree leaves transformed the Girls' almost daily delivery into tiny yet magnificent culinary enterprises to be cracked open in a pan of fresh local butter, sprinkled with a little sea salt, and savored bit by bit. My cholesterol sky rocketed that summer of cooking for eager guests and family: lobster quiche, garden vegetable fritatta, shirred eggs with local cream and herbs from my windowsill, rich custards and chard filled dinner omelets and eggy freshly-dug-potato salad.
I've been away from land and my garden and the Girls for awhile. To come back and crack their hard days work into a sizzling pan, sit on a Matelasse covered bed, looking out at treetops changing to oranges and reds against the graying October water...
The yellow melts into droplets on my tongue, coagulating slightly on my cooling plate, no need to sop up the goodness with bread when it can't get any better with the addition of an inferior medium. I am as happy as the chickens clucking and flapping down below.

With all the recent egg scares and sickness, grotesque photos of chickens in filth and pens so crowded there couldn't possibly be a plump tick or earthworm in sight, I'm not sure I can chow down on a standard diner omelet with the same gusto. It certainly wouldn't be able to compare in taste.
So my pledge, as I stare at a plate with sticky yellow yolk clinging to the lip, is that in my travels and for my own cooking, unless I know where the egg is from or know the restaurant is sourcing locally, it's best to go without.
Be it duck (quack), goose, or chicken, I'm going to find you my little spheres of nutrition, because you are just too good to forget (again)!
I mean really, did you check out that yellow?