straight to jail

Notes from the Egg Circle of Trust

I have a confession.

I don't trust your eggs.

Please don't take this personally.

This is not a reflection of your character. It is not a statement about your cleanliness. It is not even rooted in science.

It is simply one of the many irrational rules that govern my life.

You see, I love eggs.

I love fried eggs. I love over-easy eggs. I love eggs Benedict. I love carbonara. I love breakfast in general. If breakfast were a professional sport, I would have season tickets.

Yet I have a very short list of people whose runny eggs I will eat.

My parents make the list.

A few lifelong family friends make the list.

You know the type. The people who aren't technically related to you but have been around so long that calling them Mr. or Mrs. feels strange. The people everyone just calls Aunt or Uncle despite sharing absolutely no DNA.

If one of those people places a plate of sunny-side-up eggs in front of me, I'll happily grab a piece of toast and get to work.

A restaurant?

Maybe not.

A stranger's house?

Not a chance.

Please scramble those eggs until they surrender.

I would like them cooked to the point where they can no longer remember being liquid.

Now before you accuse me of inconsistency, let me make things worse.

I have absolutely no issue with traditional pasta carbonara.

You know, the Roman masterpiece whose silky sauce is held together by eggs that are intentionally not cooked all the way through.

Delicious.

No concerns.

No hesitation.

I will also order eggs Benedict without a second thought. A poached egg sitting on an English muffin under a blanket of hollandaise sauce is one of humanity's finer achievements.

Granted, I quietly hope the poached egg is a little more well-done than tradition demands, but that's between me and the kitchen.

Yet hand me one of those beautiful ramen eggs.

You know the ones.

Marinated in soy sauce.

Perfectly sliced in half.

Golden jammy center.

Instagram's favorite egg.

Straight to jail.

Explain that.

You can't.

I can't.

Somewhere deep inside my brain lives a tiny government employee whose sole responsibility is egg classification.

Carbonara? Approved.

Eggs Benedict? Approved.

Scrambled eggs? Approved.

Sunny-side-up eggs from a stranger? Under review.

Ramen egg? Straight to jail.

No appeals process exists.

The Egg Circle of Trust operates under rules that are both arbitrary and final.

The truth is that we all have food quirks.

Some people won't drink milk with dinner.

Some people refuse to eat leftovers.

Some people eat all of their fries before touching their burger, which remains one of society's great unsolved mysteries. Why would you let the burger get cold? It's called a burger and fries, not fries and burger.

Me?

I have egg issues.

I've accepted it.

I don't understand it.

I don't plan to fix it.

We all like to think we're rational adults making informed culinary decisions.

I am a grown man who trusts carbonara but distrusts ramen eggs.

I have accepted that I will be weird forever.