I shop. I know what's important. Organic blah blah and locally sourced blah blah and ten minutes studying wine labels. But eggs is eggs. A vague look at the boxes with pretty farmstead pictures, and the price. Bang. In the basket. I generally find out what size they are when I get home.
But the Sig Oth buys from the market stall, large or even duck or, wait for it, gull eggs. (how eggsiting is this going to get?).
Last week she came in bearing a box marked "two yolks" which she laid on the table with the triumphant flourish of a mother hen. I tried not to stare, but felt slightly queasy.
Eggs with two yolks sound like a breakfast gag (literally) from The Simpsons, but I put prejudice aside, all thought of scientifically cloned chicks, nuclear power plants and plain old genetic maladjustment and cooked one. Boiled, sliced it open and looked inside.
Two yolks. Staring at me. Two little yellow yolks which might have been ickle twin chickies. (Oh come on, you eat raw steak, what the hell are you on about?)
Folklore says they're either unlucky - you can expect a death in your family if you get one, (terrible speech to make at a funeral. "Sorry Aunt Jemima, we knew where we wuz with salmonella, but two yolks....") - or lucky, you get an extra baby at Christmas or something. Googling just makes matters worse; descriptions of "unsynchronised production cycles" and "occasional abnormalities" are not really conducive to the (until now) excitement of scrambling and poaching and coddling.
If they're simply oddballs (long and thin) how do you know they're not just big eggs? Are they X-rayed in the coop? (No. Apparently they're candled, which involved holding a candle behind em and looking really really hard to count the yolks. And you can have more than two. The record is nine. Yeuch).
And so this morning, while waiting on the man fixing the car, I got an old fashioned greasy spoon all day breakfast in the caff next door, heart attack on a plate, with tea, bread, sausage, bacon, beans and an egg. Safe. Well guess what, plate central - two yolks staring up at me. Not two eggs, I recognised the damn thing right away and gently picked at it, trying not to look like some nonce in the midst of the overall clad horde wolfing down double EBBSC buried beneath slatherings of brown sauce. It didn't seem the time nor the place to call garcon! and complain that my egg had an extra yolk. So I played around with it for a while, chopped it, then felt I'd had enough. And left the egg.
I'm beginning to suspect there is a God after all and he likes teasing lifelong non-believers after he comes back from the pub. Woddever, the yolks on me*
* a pun too far.