I always thought carrots were good for your eyes. So I began to devour carrots at a rate that would have given rabbits a complex, if they only knew. I didn’t care much for the taste but munched gamely along, and was just beginning to like it when there appeared this friend who announced it isn’t carrots that are good for your eyes but eggs. “Eggs?” I was surprised.
“ Eggzactly!” she grinned.
“The whole egg or just the white?” I asked. The egg, especially its yolk, is often the bête noir of health faddists.
“The egg, the whole egg and nothing but the egg,” she declared, her eyes shining behind her glasses. Clearly the eggs hadn’t begun working the magic on her eyes yet.
She added, “I’ve been studying eggs.” I thought she was studying economics, but let that pass. “It’s a complete meal,” the wannabe oologist concluded.
“Likely,” I thought, considering it becomes a full-grown chicken, and if a chicken isn’t a complete meal, then what is? This satisfying inference already set my mouth watering. I no longer wished to chicken out of eating an egg.
Still, I wanted further clarification. “What about the cholesterol in the yolk?,” I persisted, “Health gurus have been shouting themselves hoarse about the villainous egg yolk for some time.”
“Well, the turncoats have changed their tune, like this,” she said, snapping her fingers to show how fickle they were. “Yolk is the hero now. If you value your eyesight, go for eggs. Don’t take a jaundiced view of the yellow. There is good cholesterol in egg yolk. Believe me, it will raise your HDL levels.” Her words raised my hopes of a delicious meal anyway. I was only too willing to believe her for I love eggs. Visions of a bull’s eye, sunny side up, scrambled eggs, a fluffy omelette, not to mention boiled eggs seasoned with salt and pepper, rose before my eyes. I decided to buy some eggs the same day.
But the problem with eggs is that they are fragile. They break easily. They haven’t been taught manners, they crack without a warning. They don’t know that self-respecting eggs ought not to cave in to outside force without fighting back. And give so much extra work to the one who exerted that force, although inadvertently. I remember how, during my egg-devouring days, bringing eggs home without breaking any was a cause for celebration. And celebration was always in the form of breaking an egg for an omelette.
So when I actually bought and brought home half a dozen eggs intact that evening, I couldn’t believe it. This was a feat nonpareil and elated, I plonked the bag, a little too firmly, on the hard kitchen counter. Plop! Crrrack! In one stroke, half the job of getting an omelette ready was done. Unfortunately both the egg shell and the paper cone that contained the eggs were determined to become ingredients too — the broken egg shell pieces clung to the white and yolk messy mix while the soggy paper cone that had contained the eggs was loath to break free. I had no choice but to throw the bag away, eggs, paper, shell and all.
The next half hour was devoted to wiping the counter clean, the bag having sported a tear, but the greater challenge was to rid the place of the stink. All the perfumes of Arabia got their act together and once the smell of egg was replaced with that of a blend of antiseptic and liquid cleaner, I was back in the store for more eggs and some provisions.
Shopping done, I jumped into an auto, my hand resting protectively over the paper packet of eggs that nestled on top of my carry bag. I had rescued the eggs from the bottom where the store assistant had deemed fit to place it.
Call it sadistic pleasure or pure ignorance, some assistants love to deposit delicate food items bread, plantains and eggs there.
But after all the care I had taken, the auto lurched, the bag swayed, the eggs fell to the floor of the auto. My dismayed shout startled the driver who jammed the brakes so hard the packet tumbled out of the auto.
“Don’t you want that? ” asked the driver, turning to glance at the unidentifiable bundle on the road.
“No, go on straight ahead,” I said, happy I didn’t have to clean the mess.
Once home, I took a carrot out of the fridge and began chomping on it.
(The fortnightly column by the city-based writer, academician and author of the Butterfingers series concludes. She can be contacted at khyrubutter@yahoo.com)
