Margit’s Note: Crack It Open

“The incredible, edible egg.”

That’s just one of many ‘70s commercial jingles affixed to my memory bank. In fact, this ad for the American Egg Board was remade in the ‘80s, in the ‘90s, by some guy in a jingle contest and now Kevin Bacon is a spokesperson? “Nobody knows eggs better than Bacon.” (Really? Really.)

But it’s true. An egg is a delicious scramble, the essence of fertility, frozen for later, dyed and collected in baskets of plastic green grass, and smells awful when rotten.

For women, the egg is mythologized as our ultimate potential — the question of that potential dogs us from an early age, following us well past viability. Whether we want it to or not. Now, in our early-mid-late-whatevers, we’re watching a disappearing act.

On a related note, society — and social media — is still shocked by the site of a woman’s reproductive mojo, as evidenced last week by Rupi Kaur’s photo. The Toronto-based poet took a picture of herself with a spot of blood and leakage, and posted it on Instagram. Instagram decided the image violated their community guidelines, took it down (twice) and started a firestorm. But she won, the photo is back.

Point, humans.

This week we’re flipping some omelets:

I like mine poached,



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