On a recent Sunday, I stood in the kitchen with my brother Daniel, watching as he cracked the fifth and final egg into a bowl – the blue bowl, his favourite for making scrambled eggs.

He reached for the fork to whisk them, humming, clicking his tongue and smiling widely. At 49, Daniel has enjoyed eggs for a while – ever since our time on a farm in Wisconsin, the United States as kids, when we made frequent visits to our next-door neighbours, “Grandma” Jeanette and “Grandpa” Chester, dairy farmers who sent us home with a fresh dozen every week.