Chicken or egg?

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Yesterday, I was at my desk developing a brief as I ate the whites off my hard-boiled eggs tossing the yolks in the recycling bin – maybe they’ll make pretty yellow paper with it. Please don’t judge. So the point is, it hit me that when my parents were young neither had the money or the chance to celebrate their birthdays and all they were given each year was a solitary hard-boiled egg dyed in red food coloring – a teeny red egg to celebrate another year of growth, wisdom and most likely increased muscle mass due to unsurprisingly labor-intensive house chores!

There I was leaning back on my Herman Miller, egg shells all over my desk, and yolks in a blue bin by my feet. How the world has changed. I felt guilt.

So I called home, spent an hour lamenting apologetically until my dad finally caved in and confessed that as the youngest child, he had the luxury of receiving a fried chicken drumstick each year during his birthday. Homemade fried chicken too! Damn. I guess I’ll start feeling bad the day I start tossing fried chicken in my little blue bin. Then again, the day I eat fried chicken at work is miraculous enough to merit a separate entry.