Eggsactly

“Nine Ways to Cook Your Eggs.”  The headline greeted me upon waking—six words and my morning routine fell into a state of confusion.

I’m a simple girl.  I wake.  I check what’s happening with the weather.  I read the morning headlines.  I eat a bowl of cereal topped with blueberries.

“Nine Ways to Cook Your Eggs” made my stomach growl for breakfast sooner.  It tempted me to read beyond the headline, which would result in eating later.

Worse, it made my mind go wandering.  Not a good thing.

I know a couple of things about eggs–three to be exact.  Eggs come from chickens.

The longer the period of sunlight, the better chance a hen will lay an egg.  The best eggs come from smaller flocks, those equal to or less than 500 chickens.

Eggs that come from my friend Ann’s hens are proof of the latter.  She has what is called a hobby farm, fewer than 50, as in maybe a dozen hens.

My friend builds their confidence by giving her chicks famous names like Aretha, Adele, Madonna and Lady Gaga.

Alas, Aretha and Lady Gaga succumbed to the wiles of a fox.  Ann replaced them with Elvira and Jolene.  We’ll soon find out if the subjects of songs are craftier than the singers.

Without reading another word, “Nine Ways to Cook Your Eggs” presented me with a myriad of enticing breakfast options.

I said to myself, “Self, do not read on.”

I did not, nor did I have to.  Visions of eggs—hardboiled, fried, scrambled, poached—danced around in my head.  Omelets filled with sausage and onion and tomato and sweet pepper, omelets oozing with cheese came next in the egg parade.

I eat eggs.  I do.  Maybe I haven’t tried them cooked nine different ways, but I’ve experimented enough to establish my top choice.

I doubt anyone says, “Tell the chef to make my eggs any way she wants.”

People may sit on the fence when it comes to politics, but they are particular about the way they like their eggs.

I crave an occasional hard-boiled egg.  I’ll eat fried eggs.  I like omelets.

My favorite?  I’m a scrambled egg kind of girl.  Not surprising, I know.

It’s easy for me to whip up a scrambled egg.  All I have to do is attempt to cook eggs over-easy.  Sooner or later, I mess up the yokes.

When I’m feeling creative, I dress up my messed up over-easy, now scrambled egg.  I add a few bits of bacon or tomato or pepper or cheese.  Next thing I know, I’m eating a scrambled omelet.

When scrambling eggs, using a fork is superior to using a whisk and I always pre-heat my pan.  Experts add one tablespoon of fat for every two eggs, but you and I know their fat is our bacon grease.

Rumor has it that eggs can be scrambled in an espresso machine.  That’s nice for coffee drinkers.  I am not one of them.

“Nine Ways to Cook Your Eggs” was almost, but not successful in convincing me to alter my weekday breakfast ritual.  In the end, simplicity won out.

It takes little to no planning to pour cereal into a bowl, toss blueberries on top and add milk.  Eggs are another story.

Eggs require extra utensils.  Unless you are Rocky Balboa, eggs require cooking time.

Add additional minutes if you’re a sloppy egg cracker who has to go fishing for itty-bitty pieces of shell.  Oh, and if an egg crashes to the floor, it is NF–No Fun.

On the luckiest of egg mornings, cooking means cleaning. Cleaning means washing.  Washing means drying.  Drying means putting away.

I reserve eggs for weekends no matter how I prepare them.

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