As you may or may not know, this blog was originally (and continues to be) the web presence of a print zine of the same name. In the first issue of said zine, I wrote a scathing blurb under “Things That Suck” that has really come to bite me in the ass in the last few months. Here it is.
I still agree with a lot of the things I said then. It’s still gross that you can buy them fertilized, it’s still gross that they smell kind of like farts, and it still kind of sucks that an entire meal is built almost entirely around them. I can still stand behind those statements in a way, but something strange happened to me over the course of the last year or so.
It all started about a year ago when I realized that McDonalds Egg McMuffins have the remarkable ability to almost instantly cure hangovers. In that context, eggs were like medicine, something to be choked down for my health but almost certainly not enjoyed. Then it started meandering to other breakfast sandwiches, like the ones Dunkin’ Donuts does with the croissants and the ham and all that. Little by little, eggs started creeping their way into my diet. I rationalized it by saying that I could tolerate eggs as long as they were surrounded by other stuff, as long as there was just as much meat, cheese, and bread in each bite as there was egg. But I wasn’t fooling anyone but myself. I was eating eggs.
Jo was (and continues to be) heartbroken. We once stood together in our brave battle against the eggocracy, thought of ourselves as the lone voice of reason in a sea of sulfurous insanity. She was willing to turn the other cheek when it was just an occasional breakfast sandwich here and there. Hell, she’d even eat one herself every now and then. But when it turned into skillets at a diner, we both knew I was taking it too far. “No – look! It’s just scrambled eggs on top of all this other good stuff! It’s no worse than a breakfast sandwich,” I’d explain. She knew it was bullshit and she wanted no part of it.
One time we were at a fancy hipster brunch joint and I tried to order something called “Country Benedict” without any eggs. I was so naive. Everyone laughed. I guess it was kind of like hanging out at a junkie’s house and asking for a can of heroin.
We both knew what came next, and sure enough, not more than a month later, there I was, ordering omelets like it was no big deal.
It was humiliating.
What happened? I’ll tell you what happened – I got worn out, that’s what happened. I got sick of bread breakfasts, that’s what happened. A man can only tolerate so many waffles, so many pancakes and slices of french toast before he loses his mind. Yeah, you can toss a side of breakfast meat on the side, but you can wrap a ribbon around a turd, too. Does that make it a present?
When you’re sick of bread breakfast there aren’t too many other places you can turn. When it comes to breakfast, eggs are the name of the game. You win, breakfast. You broke me. Uncle.
Now what’s up with these frittata things I keep hearing about?
P.S. The other morning I was scrambling some eggs and one of them had a double-yolk. Why didn’t any of you egg-eating folks warn me about those? They’re terrifying.