I would not, could not, in a box. I could not, would not, with a fox. I will not eat them with a mouse. I will not eat them in a house. I will not eat them here or there. I will not eat them anywhere. I do not eat green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam-I-am.
Oh! What chemicals must there be in my breakfast sandwich that it only takes 10 seconds to cook! I watched the woman assemble it from pieces in two refrigerated drawers: one for the egg, one for the sausage. She dropped on a slice of American cheese, wrapped the sandwich in paper, and threw the bundle into a microwave. She pressed three buttons, and 10 seconds later, I was paying for it.
How is it acceptable to crack open a chicken egg, shake out the snot inside, whip it up and fry it? What historical accident led to this? I could understand if someone decided that an egg on its own was something to be squished and swallowed raw. It’s practically a liquid. Lord knows I’ve swallowed worse. But to whip it up, cook it, flip it? Seriously?
Don’t get me wrong: A cooked egg is a step in the right direction. But I just don’t see what possessed someone to try so hard.
And why chicken eggs? I find the thought of caviar revolting, let alone the odor. Let alone the texture. And what makes a chicken egg any better? You go to the store to buy eggs. Chicken eggs. You order a three-egg omelette. Three chicken eggs. Why not turkey eggs? Pheasant eggs? Turtle eggs?
Ugh. Egg. Even the word sort of oozes. Buy they are sort of marvelous, aren’t they? Butter. Tarragon. Cream cheese. Chives. Salt and pepper. On toast.