OK Poultry

Lee Cataluna's article on OK Poultry in yesterday's Star-Advertiser described why my beloved eggs have become so are hard to get.

I've been going to the farm in Waimanalo for over 2 years now. Recently, I've been getting there a little after they open at 7:30 a.m., I get in line, and I cross my fingers hoping that they'll be enough eggs left for me. 

The article says that the shortage should be over in a few weeks when the younger hens "get up to speed". I hope so because I'm spoiled now, and no other egg can compare.

Here's the article:

People have been showing up early in the morning to buy eggs in Waimanalo. The line of cars goes up the country road. Some people park on the grass, get out of their cars and stand at the gate, waiting for it to open. Roy Kaneshiro has never seen anything like this, though he is in his 70s and his family has been in the egg business all his life.

“It’s like they’re lining up for Bruno Mars tickets or something,” he said.

OK Poultry in Waimanalo, where Kaneshiro, the former owner, now serves as consultant to the new owners, opens at 7:30 in the morning five days a week to sell eggs directly to customers — eggs laid the day before, eggs people describe as “creamy” with yolks golden as the morning sun.

The farm is transitioning its birds, and the new, younger hens take a little while to get up to speed, so to speak. For the past month or so, the farm hasn’t had as many eggs to sell. Its customers, many of whom are longtime regulars, have been coming as early as 6 a.m. to wait patiently for the farm to open so they can get their eggs before the supply runs out.

People in the know buy their eggs directly from the farm because the prices are good (for example, $3.50 for a dozen medium-size eggs, $8.25 for a tray of 30). Bakers come to get the freshest eggs. Large families come to stretch their food dollars. Nonprofits come to feed their clients.

On Saturday morning Kaneshiro’s daughter Wendy Nakanishi opened the gate promptly at 7:30. The line of waiting cars proceeded into the parking lot while those who were standing at the gate filed in. The people walking in are mindful of the drivers who get there before they do, Kaneshiro said. They make room in line. Everyone wants their eggs but courtesy comes first.

Crossing into the farm is like stepping back to a gentler time. It is bustling with activity but still quiet. The little store has homey antiques on display and fresh produce and homemade cookies for sale. People talk story while they wait their turn at the counter. A small girl holding her mother’s hand asks to visit the chickens to thank them for the eggs. It’s the kind of place where a child can do that — just walk over to a nearby wooden shed and say hi to the hens. One morning the eggs were sold out in 15 minutes. The supply is steadily increasing, but still, it saddens the workers to turn anyone away without eggs. The customers have been so understanding, they say. When one woman realized she was buying the last two flats of eggs, she turned to the customer behind her and said, “I’ll take one. You take the other.”

“They’re lining up for eggs,” Kaneshiro said, almost incredulous. “I mean, it’s not a hurricane thing, but they’re lining up. And people waiting in line become friends. It’s good to see people being nice to each other.”

Deborah Hall emerged from the store triumphantly carrying two flats of eggs with an avocado balanced on top. She uses the eggs to make her little spinach quiches, she said. As Hall and Kaneshiro chatted in the farm yard, they realized he knew her father, the Rev. Dave Coon, who was his beloved teacher back at ‘Iolani. “Oh, he was a wonderful teacher,” Kaneshiro said, his eyes filling with memories. “I’m so happy to meet you. Please tell him I said hello!”

The morning went on like this, with small courtesies and deep connections. The shortage of eggs will be over in a few weeks, but perhaps the abundance of kindness will endure.