Bad eggs

I only eat eggs. Most of the time I eat the eggs from battery hens – you know the ones, thin light brown shells, smooth, boring. And the egg inside will keep you alive, but it has little taste. Some eggs are advertised as ‘free-range’ and you expect them to be richer, tastier. But sometimes I think it’s false advertising because they don’t taste much different.

So I roam the fields and lanes, searching for the wild eggs. They hide under the bushes and inside the hedges. When I’m lucky enough to find one, I roll it around in my palm, marvelling at the colourful marks and bumps on its surface. I rub the shell with my fingers and feel the rough texture. I smell the shell and conjure visions of mist and damp soil. Eventually I can wait no longer. One such egg will nourish me for the rest of time and every cell in my body will glow with life. I picture myself breaking it open, feeling the silky egg white slide down my throat, tasting the punch of the rich gold yolk that lingers long after you swallow, licking my lips to savour the last drop.

Impatiently I search for a sharp stone to crack the egg open. Tap, tap… gag. The stench makes me retch and I hurl the egg on the road in fury and disappointment. Eight such eggs I’ve found in 30 years, and every one has been a bad egg. They are all too old, or been left out in the sun. And whilst the shells all look so pretty, the egg is rotten inside. Maybe I’ll have to go back to the supermarket, with its antiseptic aisles and cardboard egg cartons.

I wish I ate steak. Then I could lasso my deer, slit its throat and hang it to season well. Meat that good should be eaten raw.

But I only eat eggs.

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