Our family consumes eggs rapidly, sometimes averaging 6 per day. Our customary weekday breakfast is scrambled eggs a la Chef Gordon Ramsay, whose surprisingly G-rated youtube video taught the secret to a great scramble is alternating heat and cool. Our children eat scrambled eggs every day, which adds up. If we whip up some Jiffy Corn Bread (the only kind that matters) or Emily bakes a cake or something, our egg consumption increases exponentially. If any household was a candidate for city chickens, it’s us.
Some people we know and love give us eggs from time to time because they actually have their own chickens, the kind that poop out the brown country eggs that seem to taste just a little better and have that rural edge to them that your store bought ovals can’t offer. Of all the eggs our family consumes, we end up only buying around a third. The rest are given to us by kind people who have an abundant egg dilemma easily solved by our high rate of consumption.
When I told Emily that someone offered to bring us a few dozen extra eggs, something clucked in her that led to an even higher rate of egg consumption. She looked at our already 24 refrigerated eggs. She thought I must use up these eggs before more appear. Like Betty Crocker on some kind of natural accelerant (turmeric, I think), she went into super egg usage mode. It was like switching from a black powder rifle to something fully automatic. Jones* made a bunch of Quiche-ish pies, some kind of Angel Food Cake (made from real angel?) and something called Flann, which was chosen by virtue of the fact that the recipe calls for a cubic ton of eggs. It was delicious, and it all happened because we were looking forward to more eggs.
And oh, how we feasted. Because we had to. Because no one wants too many eggs.
Early last evening, Lexi ate the last of the spinach-infused quiche, dipped in ketchup (per her request). And guess who had Strawberries and Angel Food Cake for breakfast? This guyeee.
Gang, I write all this to express thanks for the chickens and the chicken tenders (by which I mean those who tend to the chickens). Thank you to the people who give us eggs from their prodigious chickens who surrender unfertilized embryos so that our children can be fueled for school. Tell your chickens that we believe the children are the future, and that we’re convinced that we need to teach them well and let them lead the way.
Oh, and try adding the salt and pepper as the eggs cook, not beforehand.
Otherwise, Kitchen Nightmare.
*I have called my lovely wife Emily by the nickname Jones for many years now. It fits her well because its her maiden name. She is still a maiden to me, except that she is married. To me. And I like that quite a bit.