That should be the opener to every relationship.
“How do you like your eggs?”
Doesn’t it say just about everything about a person?
“Oh, I don’t eat eggs.” — NIX!
“Sling those delicious little ovums any ol’ way you want for me.” — WINNER!
“Ooh, I can’t stand runny yokes.” — GONNER!
“A buttery, soft-boiled treasure chest of golden goo and toast is absolute heaven.” — CHAMPION!
“Bouncy and dry, Don’t try to feed me wet scrambled — any day.” — EXIT STAGE LEFT!
“Tobiko, a raw quail’s egg yoke nestled in a tiny cup of flying fish eggs, wrapped in sushi rice and nori, tipped onto your tongue, popping the yoke, letting that unctuous creamy dream slide down your throat while nature’s pop-rocks burst like salty fireworks in your mouth, must be the most sensual food ever invented.” — DING DING DING — GRAND PRIZE!
If you don’t share your love (or hatred) of eggs — the way you like them — then what do you really have in common with that person?
Poached, fried, scrambled, soft-boiled, hard-boiled, deviled, frittata’d, quiche’d, pickled, omeletted, and raw. Eggs are wondrous orbs of divisive lines in the sand. Cross those lines — at your peril.
How do I like my eggs?
(Spoken with a heavy Scottish brogue): Squeezed from a chicken’s vagina, heated slow for the whites to jell, the yokes jiggling like a fat baby’s cheeks, and then slid over grits creamed and peppered, with a thumb-sized dollop of salted butter lowered onto the delicate golden pillows, and then, oops, I’ve slit the sack, providing for that viscous yellow ink to leak, molten and slow into the nooks of the dish. Yes, that’s how I like my eggs.