This may be a tough one to believe, but chocolate really doesn’t do it for me. And neither does ice cream. To get to the core of my most hedonistic epicurean fantasies, all you have to do is crack an egg. And for God’s sake, don’t break the yolk. It’s creamy, cooked-just-till-warm egg yolks that send me into orbit every time. And preferably the deep-orange yolks of the elegant eggs laid at American Masala Farm in Washington County, N.Y.

For reasons that revolve around the ethical treatment of animals and better health, I buy local eggs. It’s the only way to fly. And when I really want to go flying high, I drive 30 miles due east to American Masala Farm, where gentleman farmers Charlie Burd and Suvir Saran preside lovingly over their flock of Heritage chickens.

How lovingly?

Consider that Charlie decided years ago that run of the mill chicken feed was, in a word, inadequate. Instead, he offers his flock of Araucanas, Lakenvelders and New Hampshires homemade vegetarian broth brewed at his Viking stove. How’s that for going above and beyond?

“Charlie feeds them soups and stews that we eat ourselves…and so do our friends: Lebanese Lentil Soup, Lettuce and Tomato Soup, Spinach and Cauliflower Soup, Dhaansaak Stew and any other leftover soups from our kitchen,” explained Suvir. “We never add any animal based stock into our soups, and so they are great for the chickens. Charlie also feeds them all vegetarian scraps from the kitchen, both cooked and raw foods. If it is free of meat and eggs, they get it…and they LOVE it.

“These are not production layers; the girls lay eggs every two to four days…some better than others,” Suvir continued. “But when they do lay these eggs, it is totally worth the wait and the feed.”

While Suvir is often pulled away from farm life with duties that involve lecturing around the country, book-signings, and running Devi restaurant in Manhattan, Charlie sees that all runs smoothly at American Masala. If the arias of praise over the eggs are any indication, Charlie has found the perfect formula for feeding and loving the 120 chickens that supply lucky visitors and customers with unparalled delight.

How’s this for an endorsement:

“I’ve a cosmic hunch that the eggs from American Masala don’t really come from chickens—-that their yolks drip from the sun and their creamy, buttery texture flow from the cow that jumped over the moon. I eat a dozen a week.”

— Michael London of Mrs. London’s Bakery & Cafe, Saratoga Springs, New York

And he’s not alone.

New York City resident Vicki Haupt counts the eggs as one of the highlights of a weekend visit to Suvir and Charlie’s farm. “Suvir and Charlie’s eggs are simply beautiful to behold – white, large, curvaceous,” says Haupt. “You know how eggs inspire and inform great art and symbolism? These are surely worthy of the finest visual and minds eye contemplation. Such a shame then to crack, but WOW, one alone is a veritable feast and, in Suvir’s skillet, the best I have ever partaken of.”

Kim Sunee, author of the best-selling memoir “Trail of Crumbs: Hunger, Love, and The Search for Home” writes in her blog: “Rich, creamy and highly addictive, I would eat one of these gorgeous eggs every day if I lived here…”

Frank Vollkommer and his wife Jessica own The Chocolate Mill in Glens Falls, N.Y. Frank is a certified master pastry chef who grew up raising chickens in rural Saratoga County. When Charlie and Suvir introduced Jessica and Frank to the wonders of the American Masala egg, The Chocolate Mill’s menu was forever transformed.

“Each egg has a different colorful motif with shades of brown, green, white and speckled…the shells are thick and well developed as these birds lay only one egg a day without the pressured existence of commercially raised chickens,” said Frank. “The whites are rich in protein, stay intact when cooked and soufflé beautifully while the yolks are a rich deep yellow-orange with a velvet texture and incredible flavor.”

The Vollkommer’s have added the American Masala eggs to the a la carte menus as well as baking production. Frank was even inspired to create “The Charlie Burd Nest,” a mélange of scrambled American Masala eggs, fresh asparagus, red onion, and Nettle Meadow Goat Cheese in a house-made multi-grain bread nest, served with a roasted shallot-arugula salad. On a recent visit to The Chocolate Mill, I bypassed the pastries and ordered Eggs Boursin, a mound of scrambled American Masala Eggs topped with a velvety Boursin sauce and served with field greens. The kitchen staff was even sweet enough to toast the slice of gluten-free bread I brought with me. With their bright-gold color and sturdy texture, the Eggs Boursin were truly eggs the way they were meant to be enjoyed.

As much as I adore American Masala’s eggs, there’s something produced on the farm that gets my heart racing even faster: goose eggs. Every spring (tragically, this occurs only once a year) Suvir and Charlie’s snow white flock of geese lay white, voluptuous eggs the size of mini-footballs.

I thought I’d experienced every possible form of pleasure involving egg yolks. And then I made my first visit to the farm in 2007 to write a feature story on Suvir, and gasped as he fried me a goose egg. Even the sunny-side up version took nearly 15 minutes to complete and Suvir never broke his vigil over the cast iron skillet. I couldn’t take my eyes off the tangerine-sized yolk as the egg slowly sizzled in olive oil. Then he whipped out a microplane and block of Parmesan cheese and the giant egg was suddenly covered in a snowfall of pungent shavings. It’s no surprise that I report it to be the best egg of my life…leveraging the yolk alone into a single bite (that’s just how I roll with yolks) was worth the price of admission.

So when Goose Egg Season came this year, I called Charlie and Suvir and placed an order for a dozen American Masala Eggs, plus a few coveted goose eggs. True to their generous nature, they filled a Styrofoam box with as many goose eggs as would fit. Good thing. I was leaving for an out-of-state trip in three days and would need some seriously protective packaging.

First stop was a night at the Hotel Hershey in Pennsylvania where I shooed the bellhop away from the Styrofoam package, informing him that I would be the only one charged with the task of handling it. After a night in the confines of a hotel room refrigerator, the duck and goose eggs made their way south with me to Richmond, Va., where I regaled my sister Dory with the joys of superior eggs every morning of my visit.

Dory was delighted. Almost enough to consider enduring upstate winters once again…but not quite. She misses American Masala Eggs, but is glad for the experience of them…Doesn’t the look of bliss say it all?

If anyone has wondered why I’ve never posted a salad recipe it’s because, well…salad and I are a love affair in progress.  I eat them more occasionally than I’d like to admit.  Now that summer and the farmers markets are here, I’m making a pledge to have at least one a month.  Just kidding.  But seriously, I’m always looking for ways to make them a little more appealing.  And Viola!  I came across the D-Man himself (Diamond Dallas Page) making a salad (via video) on the Team YRG website.  It’s a Food Network-worthy demonstration and worth a look.  By the way, Diamond Dallas Page is the fitness guru who helped me kick 150 pounds out of my life.    The crux of the equation was I listened to what he had to say.  Sooo, looks like there will be many a chopped salad in my future:

Do you wanna know how to make a DDP Salad… Check THIS out! from Robert McLearren on Vimeo.

Dinner tonight: pork chops from Hidden Pasture Farm in North Pownal, Vt. baked in g-free bread crumbs, a sprinkling of Adobo and a finishing shower of Zataar. Side of sauteed green beans. Marvelous! This is part of the reason why I’m a part-time vegetarian…And for a change, I actually went out and met my meat.  Fiona Harrar and Seth Hanauer treat every creature on their farm with TLC.

Truth-Seekers, this is major: After a 21-year hiatus, I’m back in the 100’s. It feels beyond good. Still amazed. Still contemplating how to properly celebrate. I could probably start by thanking Oprah Winfrey, Carnie Wilson, Dallas Page, Terri Lange, and the entire YRG Team. Now that I’m officially below the 200-pound mark, I can bungee jump legally. Only trouble is, the thought terrifies me to the core. Instead, I’m putting into motion my long-deferred dream of parasailing over Lake George this summer. Anyone want to come along?

This isn’t my term; it’s from a “Hungry For The Truth” reader who sent me a beautiful letter today. She’s frustrated with herself because she hasn’t ‘gotten it’ yet. And she knows where I was three years ago – at a place that seemed like a million miles away from ‘getting it.’  I don’t even know if I’m comfortable with the term ‘getting it.’ I don’t want to put that much pressure or adulation on myself. The only thing I’m an expert in is my own f*&k-ups and victories. Just my own. It’s not easy trying to define an issue that’s too vast and nebulous to define. But here’s what I know, based on a quick outline of my life:

Childhood – The normal, happy kid had no idea when she stepped onto the school bus that her largeness was a crime against humanity punishable by emotional torture that was to be administered by secretly (but profoundly) insecure and unhappy boys and girls for the remainder of her years in the public school system. (By the by, I wasn’t fat. Larger and taller than most of the kids, yes. But I wasn’t fat. And there are pictures to prove it.)

Adolescence – After years of hearing the verbal reinforcements that I was fat (and ugly and stupid) I began to become that. Try focusing on math and social studies while putting your back into the construction and maintenance of a massive front that tells the world, ‘Oh everything’s just fine…” Pain…What’s that? But inside I was hurting. Significantly. And what do fat slobs do? They eat like pigs. May as well enjoy some food if people have already decided I’m fat. An added bonus: it dulled the pain and made me feel better.

20’s – Teen years of crash dieting and bingeing, sneaking food, and despising myself with a passion leave me burnt out and hopeless. Life intervenes with a hypnosis tape for weight loss given to me as a Christmas gift. I fall asleep to it every night for a year and drop 100 pounds. I’m delighted with the transformation because now it means I’m OK. As in, a valid human being worthy of respect and (at long last) admiration…and maybe a few bushels of rose petals showered before me wherever I walk. Ah, but there’s a snag. I haven’t changed on the inside. I still see myself as the fat, hideous creature that was singled out on the bus. The one my mother was ashamed of. The one who weighed more than most football players. And wait a minute…why are people being nice to me now? I’m the same person…and I’m not sure I like all these guys suddenly leering in my direction. See ‘ya.

30’s – After a second 100-pound-weight-loss-and gain-back, I’ve had enough. Doesn’t Life have more in mind for me than loving food more than everyone says I should, weighing more than everyone says I should, and hating myself exactly as everyone says I should? Haven’t millions of years of intelligent life evolving on planet earth led us further than this? I decide there’s got to be more to the human experience and give up dieting and the desire for other people’s approval for-EVER (interesting how these both had to be disposed of in tandem, isn’t it?). I create a new syllabus for my life. A course outline that includes radical self-acceptance which begins with getting to know who the heck I am without the labels and stereotypes put in place by the fat-phobic culture that’s uniquely American. And I realize that part of the flowering into acceptance includes eating. Without shame. Sans remorse. No self-recrimination allowed. I learned to eat out in the open. Even (GASP!) in public. Even in front of my mother. And about those knuckle-draggers who thought it was appropriate to verbalize their disapproval of my size during this era… Let’s just say I enlightened a few of them along the way. I may not have reversed their opinion, but they encountered me at a point where my rage was ready to come out and play. The scathing words I unleashed in their direction left them smarting enough to at least shut up. Some even scurried away like terrified dogs with their ears back. And I have no problem admitting I loved that part.

40’s – I mastered self-acceptance with flying colors. Easier said than done, I realize, but here’s a hint to get you started: You decide you’re tired of carrying the load around and put it down. By load I don’t mean what’s on your hips or stomach. I’m referring to the vitriolic load of crap put there by society, your family of origin, spouse, the Fashion Police on E!, and the most relentless chorus of all, your own inner critic. You may very well not be tired of bearing the load. I thought it was my duty for years, but everyone has their own timetable. I also enjoyed food fully during this era. And in a more healthy way than in my teens and 20’s. I no longer ate in hiding, but with friends and family in ways that were celebratory. I nurtured my love of cooking and travel and ended up a food writer. I was fortunate to be doing what I loved for a living but there was one problem – I’d eaten my way into a prison – one that made movement in general much more labored than it needed to be (no surprise there), as well as subtle things like sitting and sleeping. I wanted to be lighter and freer but had no clue how to do it – not by dieting – the mechanism that made me imbalanced from the get-go. So it was the classic case of the student being ready and the teacher appearing. Corny as it sounds, sometimes the most significant roads really do lead to Oprah. After seeing Carnie Wilson interviewed on Oprah in January 2009, I tracked down Dallas Page, the guy who helped her.  Dallas Page and Terri Lange  of YRG Fitness took me on as a project of sorts. They saw I meant business and gave me their guidance carte blanche. The ins and outs of the food choices and exercise is another topic, and I’ve blogged about it extensively. Today I want to address the importance of the inner work my reader refers to:

Dear Stacey –

I hope I can find what works for me soon. Personally, I think you are making such great progress because you have done the very hard internal work necessary to overcome that heart hurt that keeps us all from respecting and loving ourselves enough to really care for ourselves.

This spectacular lady hit it on the head. I have done the hard inner work. I had to. I had to be my own advocate in a world that said I wasn’t deserving of dignity or respect because of my size. It was crucial that I feel and believe I’m a valid human being no matter what size I order from the Lane Bryant catalog. It’s amazing how life can shift when you summon the courage to question the status quo. I could have gone on believing society’s craziness. You know, pearls of time-honored wisdom such as a woman should be treated with scorn if she doesn’t look good in a bikini and stilettos, Kate Winslet’s chubby, and Marilyn Monroe is officially rotund. It took a considerable amount of unmitigated will and unflinching courage to swim upstream. I had a choice stay where I was and be miserable or kick my way out of it. If anyone’s crapping on you now, question it. I did, and it saved my life. I don’t know if I’d still be alive if I didn’t intervene on my behalf. It was that dire.

Now – Thanks to doing the inner, the outer was finally able to welcome the healing forces that led to a 140-pound weight drop. Being 12 sizes smaller hasn’t erased pre-existing problems from my life but GOD it feels great to be free physically. Losing the equivalent of three runway models (and having 20 inches disappear from my hips) doesn’t mean pain and problems don’t arise. C’mon, you know better than that. Just last week I had some painful stuff crop up out of nowhere and push my buttons like they haven’t been pounded in years. It’s not really suitable for public ink, but let’s just say I was deemed to be, well, not quite good enough because I’m not (and probably never will be) suitable for a starring role on “Bay Watch.”

Ah well, just another wake-up call about human nature. As hurt as I feel, I know it’s truly the other party’s issue. There will always be men who view life as a wet t-shirt contest just waiting for them to judge it. As for me, I couldn’t be more OK with who I am…inside and out.

Epilogue: In the spirit of loving myself no matter what the scale says, I’m posting an old picture from my 40th birthday. I’m well over 300 pounds…still in love with pink…and know without question my true worth.