Never thought I’d see the day when eggs became as rare as hens’ teeth, but here we are. Following much foot-slog, I finally got my mitts upon a coveted carton, the precious nuggets nestling like jewels in their cardboard compartments, snug as bugs and smug as rugs at having finally attained food-superstar status. Ah, Fabergé knew exactly what he was doing!
And I? In my state of egg-streme distress, I rue not having followed the career path of breeding hens, now surely the Golden Goose of domestic animals. I shed tears over all the times I have cracked open one of the little darlings and did not bother to scoop all of the white from the shells. Or let the white drip upon the kitchen counter. Or neglected to prise all the cooked stuff from saucepan or frying pan. And it brings tears to my eyes remembering those times in the supermarket when I have rejected a carton because
just one happened to be cracked. Or the set of six looked less than what it, you know, what it should have: talk about the chickens coming home to roost.
Now, every one is a treasure to be cosseted and canoodled; that golden yolk colour cannot be a coincidence. The problem is: what to
do with my casket of eggs? Every fate seems just too banal, too final, too horrible. Omelettes? Too colloquial. Eggs Benedict? Don’t like. Cakes? Not eggy enough; my dears, I want to
see the precious pearls as I consume them. Every one of the ovoid beauties has attained the status of smoked salmon, fine wine, the rarest of rare cheeses, and deserves to go out in style. Really and truly, they deserve their own show, possibly an online animation of
Jack and the Beanstalk, with gold-sprayed eggs taking starring role. How about it, animators, how about it?
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