I jumped for joy the first time I saw you eggs and read your insert inside the carton. And when I sat down at the table with one of your eggs fried up for my morning breakfast, it put me back on our family farm as a young girl in North Dakota in the henhouse gathering eggs from our free roaming chickens. Everything about your eggs is the epitamy of perfection. I hadn’t had an egg that flavorful and beautiful since I left the farm in 1975. You deserve a medal of honor.