By Mary Beth Crain

One of the most popular humor memoirs of the 1940s was Betty Macdonald's "The Egg and I."

You might have seen the 1947 movie version of the book, starring Claudette Colbert and Fred MacMurray. They show it every once in awhile on TCM. That was also the film that introduced those two great character actors, Marjorie Main and Percy Kilbride, as "Ma and Pa Kettle," and launched the subsequent series of classic comedies about the loonies from the boonies.

Thus began the noble tradition of rural comedies that would influence the TV sitcom, inspiring everything from "The Andy Griffith Show" and "Green Acres" to "Mr. Ed" and, in reverse mode, "The Beverly Hillbillies." Generation X won't remember those shows, but those of us from Generation X-Lax grew up with their cozy stereotypical images of neighborly if stupid yokels teaching uptight and arrogant city folk a thing or two, horses that were smarter than people, and good old country cooking and wisdom always winning out.

The city-to-country migration became a reality for me when I moved from L.A. to Hart. Now, even though Hart has its share of urban dignity, one doesn't have to go far to get his or her dose of rural rapture-or heartland horror.

I experienced a bit of the latter a few weeks ago, when, for the first time in my life, I began buying farm fresh eggs.

I first tasted them at a friend's. Boy, were they good. She told me where she got them, and I bought a dozen from a very nice couple who had dozens of chickens roaming happily about. The first thing I noticed was how large and golden the yolks were-just like the sun. This reminded me of a sad little story my late husband told me, about when he was a little boy in Dublin, Ireland. The winters, he said, were unbearably grey and bleak, and daylight only lasted 7 hours, from around 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. He loved it when his mother served fried eggs for breakfast because it was still dark outside and the yolks were so yellow and cheery they reminded him of the sun and seemed to light up the room. Does that break your heart, or what?

Anyway, I started getting eggs straight from the chickens every couple of weeks, and felt very countrified. I'd brag to my friends in L.A. about my new farm fresh life, along with the fact that a dozen of these incredible eggs were only a buck fifty, compared to the nearly $4 a dozen they were paying for the inferior store equivalent. Nyah nyah n-nyah nyah!

And then came the morning that shall live in infamy. All set for a nice breakfast of over-easies, bacon and toast, I happily opened my latest carton of nice fresh brown eggs, cracked one into the skillet-and let out a scream they probably heard all the way to Traverse City. There, starting to cook, was a bloody yolk with a very developed embryo. I'm telling you, I almost threw up right there. I got rid of the thing as fast as I could and immediately called a friend of mine in Ohio, who grew up on a farm.

"Keith, I have to tell you what happened to me just now." My voice was still trembling from the shock. "I bought these farm fresh eggs and I cracked one open and..."

"You got the chicken, right?" he laughed.

"How did you know?"

"It happens all the time. It just means the egg wasn't fresh. Your farmer found a nest somewhere and instead of checking the eggs, he just put ‘em in the carton. You get used to it when you live on a farm."

Uh huh. I called another farm-raised friend later that day and told her the story. She was equally blasé.

"It was just a fertilized egg, that's all," she said. "I'll admit it's kind of gross. But we always had fresh eggs growing up, and an occasional fertilized egg comes with the territory. Heck, my mom would just take out the embryo and cook the rest of the egg!"

Now when I was growing up in Rochester, New York, a fertilized egg meant a tiny speck of blood about the size of a flea in the yolk, which was enough to engender a little scream from my mother, followed by immediate disposal action. Out here, I guess the egg would have to get up and walk away by itself before it was considered too creepy to consume.

Anyway, not being in the mood for any more surprises, I've stopped buying farm fresh eggs. In fact, it's going to be a long time before I can even look at an egg. So much for my fantasies of country living. Fresh air! Times Square! Darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue!