Look at this beautiful basket of eggs. The soft, non-offensive muted colours. The woodsy quality of the basket. You can just picture the manicured hand of a young woman with tousled blonde hair reaching into the basket to make homemade eggs benedict. Or perhaps she is whipping up a very au courant lemon olive oil cake. Or maybe she is going to make the most disgusting, rubbery scrambled eggs you've ever eaten. That's right. Good eggs can go bad, Leighton Meester-style, in less than 10 seconds.
Up until about 3 years ago I was a cruddy cook. The Shake and Bake instant scalloped potato kind of cruddy. This of course was not indicative of a lack of passion for food, but rather a student laziness combined with an art theory-induced narcolepsy. Scrambled eggs and rice were my go-to Saturday morning breakfast. Simple, easy, cheap, kind of Asian. At diners, I am an over-easy egg sort of gal. Other than this, my egg consumption is usually in baked good form.
I live with someone who loves eggs. His family loves eggs. He eats hard-boiled eggs on a regular basis. His mom packs us egg salad sandwiches. There is a hilarious in-the-know family joke about his dad tossing a soft-boiled egg against a kitchen cabinet in a fit. It's like, a thing.
Eggs are not terrible things, but come on people. Let's not get carried away.