I’m alive and back by my own demand. I need a distraction and quite honestly I miss writing so ready or not, here I go.
I love eggs. I apologize to all my vegan friends out there. I know. I know. I get it. But I still love eggs.
Poached, scrambled, omelet-style, sunny-side up, over-easy, hardboiled. On toast, next to toast, under toast. With an avocado. In potato salad. With green ham. In a word — or three — I love eggs.
Except I will not eat them Rocky style. I may enjoy raw fish but I have to draw the line at a glass full of raw eggs. I don’t care if they will give you the Eye of the Tiger.
Eggs are the last item on my grocery list because the egg/dairy aisle is the final stop of my shopping trip. It’s my “oh my god I’m almost done” moment. Because I do not love grocery shopping as much as I love eggs.
Last week when I got to the “thank god I’m almost done” aisle, there was a man standing directly in front of the eggs fridge. In his left hand was a carton of eggs and he was methodically picking up each and every one of the eggs with his other hand and giving them a thorough — and I mean THOROUGH — once-over. He was basically undressing them with his eyes. It made me very uncomfortable.
Inside my brain —because I didn’t want to be rude — I rolled my eyes and thought to myself, “who the heck has time for that? That’s a little over the top, if you ask me.”
Not that anyone was asking me.
Before you all judge the judger, I do always open the carton and give the eggs a cursory look-over to be sure there wasn’t a chicken fight. Aka no broken eggs. I made sure I did it in front of the egg inspector to passive-aggressively show him how it’s really done.
I did my obligatory cursory glance and ran — not walked — to the closest and less crowded cashier lane, checked out, and drove home.
As the hubs was putting away the groceries, I heard him say, “there’s poop on this egg.” Of course my immediate thought was “do you personally know the egg inspector I saw at ShopRite a few minutes ago or did I miss the memo?”
I did not believe him. I thought that it’s got to be dirt, so I took it upon myself to take a sniff.
Sure enough it was poop. And it smelled slightly familiar. Almost human -like.
My first reaction was to toss the offender in the trash and just rinse the remaining eggs but then visions of Sam & Ella stopping by for an impromptu dinner party danced through my head.
Instead, I did what every normal middle-aged woman who has been egg-scorned does — you drive 10.6 round trip miles and burn $1.60 in gasoline to return your $3.65 carton of eggs.
And if that wasn’t enough, after you tell the girl there is human poop on one of the eggs and she looks at you like you’re crazy then asks if you want to grab another carton of eggs, you indignantly tell her, “no thank you” as if you will never purchase eggs there again and then hop in your car to go to the nearest garden center that sells fresh eggs for $6 a carton (I bought two) which means another 5.1 miles plus wear and tear on your vehicle (yes, I calculated all that in case you thought I had no time on my hands).
Also, is everyone imagining a farmer squatting over an egg to relieve himself of his morning BM?
So, I have two cartons of fresh eggs still sitting in my fridge a week later because I really shouldn’t eat them anyway because of my high cholesterol. But they are clean and a farmer did not poop on them.
What is the moral of this long story just to tell you I returned eggs that had fecal matter on them? Never judge the egg inspector because if you do, karma will come to your house in the form of feces.
Also, I will buy eggs from ShopRite again. Who am I kidding? All that business was exhausting.