With Easter on the horizon this weekend we’ll all be thinking about Easter eggs, hot cross buns and perhaps most famously of all, the Easter bunny.
Given that this weekend is dedicated to the celebration of eggs, it seems a fitting time to tell you about one of my life’s biggest fears. Admittedly, it maybe won’t be one of yours, but it’s high up there will my all time bob yourself moments. I’m not really bothered by spiders, snakes or the fact I’ll probably die alone because of my collection of navel fluff that I keep in jam jars. What I’m actually scared of is… eggs. Ovaphobia. No, not Easter eggs, they please me like no other chocolate with their curvaceousness and all round chocolately noveltyness. I’m actually scared of chicken eggs, although that reminds me; if I don’t get any Easter eggs this weekend I’ll be dishing out some black eyes to the parents (don’t worry they’re going senile, no one will believe them when they say I punched them).
I never used to be bothered by eggs and after all they are pretty tasty… but what scares me, is when eggs go wrong. Last week I bought some eggs from my local shop only to get them home and find that they still had chicken shit all over them. What the hell am I meant to do with half a dozen violated eggs? Fuck you; I’m not touching no egg that’s still got poo on it. Now I’m £1.16 down and omelette-less. I know that they come from a dirty place, but I don’t need reminding of the fact that they’ve passed through a chicken’s filthy hoop when I’m about to eat them. Surely they can pay an illegal immigrant a basket of eggs and some milk for an 18 hour day to clean them or something (or a small child as you could probably pay them less – I’m not overly fussed who does it).
My irrational fear reached new levels yesterday when the charming Tesco delivery man brought me a fresh batch. I thought I’d best invest in some free range bad boys this time – for the added 60p I can rest easy knowing they were kept in much better conditions before they had their necks snapped. How considerate of me. As I opened up the aptly named ‘happy eggs’ box, I was horrified to find an egg more violated than I’ve even seen before. This time, it wasn’t covered in faeces but instead had a giant feather sticking out of it. Not stuck on it, sticking out of it – meaning that the poor chicken must have semi formed and burst its little chicken wing through the shell trying to escape. Free range my arse.
I’m not sure I want to eat eggs anymore. I’m convinced after that little episode that next time I go to have a fried egg, I’m going to crack it on the side and a little part formed foetus is going to fall straight out of it and onto my boiling hot pan before it starts sizzling and squawking away. It’s only a matter of time until a dead egg slips through the net and lands on one of our plates. I’m feeling a tad sick already. And for god’s sake, whatever you do don’t google ‘the birth of a chicken’ like I just did – the damn thing starts out just as you see it in your pan! What if I’m cooking babies? What if I’ve been cooking babies all along? … I’m going to go vomit down myself now before sitting and rocking in the corner until these thoughts go away…
With all these weird thoughts I can’t help but wonder a few things; if I kick a chicken, will it break its egg? Then if I shake it, will it shit an omelette? And, I could have sworn that this Easter thingy used to be about a bloke dying somewhere along the line to redeem us of our sins – or am I thinking of Aslan from Narnia?