I Hate Eggs

Each morning John fries bacon and eggs for breakfast. He fries only one piece of bacon for me as I don’t eat eggs. My grandmother died when I was twelve, and I inherited her fifty egg-producing hens. Those chickens required food and water every morning before school and every afternoon after I got off the bus. I did not like those chickens.

Each evening I gathered the eggs. Often those over-protective chickens refused to budge off their eggs and pecked at my hand as I attempted to retrieve the eggs. Sometimes a snake was nestled in the nest with the eggs. I quickly learned to not slip my hand into the nest without first looking—although my family usually stopped what they were doing to watch as I ran screaming out of the hen house.

The eggs were often soiled with chicken—you know chicken….  Anyway, those eggs required washing – by me. Once cleaned and in a carton, I sold the eggs three dozen for a dollar to neighbors.

I didn’t get rich, and I envied my friends who babysat, sacked groceries, cleaned houses, or in fact, did anything for money rather than tend chickens.

No, I don’t eat eggs.


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