SOS is where desire meets restraint and less satisfies more.

The complication of diet has never made sense to me. I have had an ear waxed clogged of diet extremes dwelling in California. Eat garlic. Do not eat garlic. Carrots bad. Potato’s horrible. Milk a travesty. Eggs, do not even ask. I refused to stop eating eggs. Beginning in the eighties, the rumor spread like a supreme court ruling, eggs are bad, very bad, no terrible. The yolk yikes, horrific, cholesterol and fat an abomination, “health perts” would lament for years to come. Ordering eggs out among witnesses, demanded immediate prosecution, met with free persecution. Egg-eaters would find themselves forced to apologize, followed by lengthy explanations of why they were not going to die upon ingesting two eggs sunny-side up. Forget the greasy bacon, forget the yeasty biscuits, forget the fried pork sausages, and forget the butter dripping hash browns, one’s suns of yolk were the devil. Straight sons of the devil, a bastion of evil glaring back on one’s plate. And it was only time before its white bouncy frameless friend was impeached, maligned, and guilty of malicious malevolent intent as well.

This writer’s gut did not concur with the egg edict. I am morning on two Happy soft yolky eggs on sourdough toast, sprinkled with crushed sea salt and black peppercorns, while creating this blog. The fast food of ancients, the egg is a simple scrumptious protein and fat. One can eat it on the run. One can eat it for a snack. One can eat it for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. It wraps perfect. It packs perfect. It proportions perfect. One can bake it, blend it, boil it, grill it, fry it, poach it, scramble it, steam it, or swallow it raw. It is the omnipresent, omni-affordable, omni-diverse utilitarian egg, for all level-headed egg eating sane people’s sanity sake. Houston do we really have an egg problem?

I collected eggs. Throughout my childhood, I collected eggs every rooster crow, in a walk-in, walk-up ruby red chicken coup. Warm egg after egg, plucked from under mother hen’s cozy feathers. Fried eggs, poached eggs, soft-boiled eggs, hard-boiled eggs, eggs in cake, eggs in crust, eggs in hash, eggs on toast, eggs for crowfast, eggs in a sack, eggs for a snack, eggs in supper’s soup. We ate eggs. We decorated eggs. I peddled brown, white, and speckled eggs in my rusty red wagon for seventy-five cents a carton. Around the block, I would pull and stop, ringing doorbells, and knocking on doors. Eggs were a part of this writer’s existence, that waddled into my adulthood. How could eggs go so very wrong? How did mankind not know this until present? How can people be so smart today and so dumb yesterday? I kept eating eggs. Decades of egg condemnation have passed and surprise eggs are back, except in vegan country. Brain doctors sing egg songs of vindication. They report that eggs contribute to vital neurological functions found in their cholesterol. Good news, brains work better with cholesterol. Yolks are exonerated. Eggs are not evil. Other egg nutrients, like collagen and biotin, were found to be not so bad either. Perhaps mankind’s egg eating ancestors were further evolved?