As I rub coarse salt and herbs into a leg of lamb, I think about all the great meals I've had since I started this project. Some of the best are those that weren't planned at all. Like the time in northern Iceland when I met a former air force meteorologist who makes his living collecting the speckled eggs of sea-loving guillemots, birds that nest in cliffs overlooking the ocean. His family has held the rights to collect eggs on those particular cliffs for 17 generations. After some pleasantries, the egg collector invited me into his pickup truck for an impromptu lunch. Damp, foggy, north Atlantic air mingled with our warm exhalation in the enclosed space, and the windows quickly fogged up, little beads of water rolling down. We each peeled a fist-size, almost conically shaped, bright turquoise egg and ate it just like that, with some salt. Perfectly cooked and simply served by a stranger in the seat of a battered pickup truck in the Icelandic countryside—this was my best meal of the year, because someone really wanted to show me something. He took genuine care cooking and sharing that egg with me, even though I was a stranger.