I made some scrambled eggs today for the kids. Cheese, a couple of onions, salsa, milk and then some eggs. Yeah. I went with the eggs to make scrambled eggs. Gave ’em a stir in the pan, filled up a bowl, grabbed a fork and summoned the offspring.
The eggs stink. Like old basement. Like someone spilled cabbage juice on a dead goat. Like that cupboard that no one is supposed to open.
Are they bad? No. Did I check the expiration date? No. So I checked that. Looks good. Eggs — still stink. They smell like Jr. High locker room. They put off the odor of that one guy at the office that smells like oniony eggs but no one has the guts to say something. They are gross.
Do I feed the eggs to my children?
They taste fine, like eggs should taste. After arriving at the conclusion of relative safety, with much trembling I fed the children the stinky eggs. They didn’t complain. So we’ll see where this goes. I’m counting on the “luck” of 08/08/08. I’m counting on the positive energy of the Olympics to scare off the demons of projectile vomiting. But if you don’t hear from me for a while, blame the stinky eggs. Or make some of your own stinky eggs to commemorate my apparent lack of respect for salmonella.