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"Operationally, God is beginning to resemble not a ruler but the last fading smile of a cosmic Cheshire cat."
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Chapter 1 - Page 2
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"They think enough of my eggs down there," she would boast. "Boiled, fried, poached, scrambled, or for an omelette--my eggs can't be beaten."
"If the villagers can't beat your eggs they certainly can't use them for omelettes," Polly Plymouth Rock told Henrietta one day. "Everybody knows you have to beat eggs to make an omelette."
Henrietta Hen didn't know what to say to that. It was almost the only time she was ever known to be silent.
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