So I’ve been reading Julie & Julia, and one of the commonalities I’ve discovered between myself and Julie Powell is a recent discovery of eggs. Growing up I would almost never eat them. They have a weird consistency that’s almost a solid, but they’re not quite there. When I would go to diners and such places for breakfast (side note: I LOVE diners), it became hard to escape the ovarian beast as it came along with almost every meal. At first I would pawn them off on unsuspecting strangers, but slowly I began to try stomaching them on my own. My solution: scrambled eaten with hash browns (another one of my favorites) and ketchup (I still eat my eggs with ketchup to this day). And now I can say that they can be quite tasty. The next step in my journey was the fried egg. (Dun…dun…dun!) I don’t think I’ve eaten or even cooked a fried egg in the past decade (not that I can remember anyway). The yellow yolk oozing out of its gelatinous shell when pierced kind of creeps me out. Plus, they’re just plain hard to make. Flipping an egg without breaking might be more difficult than curing cancer (not really of course…but close…kind of…). In the end, I fried two eggs – one more successfully than the other – and consumed them along with some toast and bacon for my brunch.
Waiter/Waitress: “How would you like your eggs?”
Fini.
I eat ketchup with my eggs as well… though, I eat ketchup with a LOT of salty food.