It was a Tuesday. Or was it a Wednesday? Time had lost all meaning in those dark days of 2023, when my world had crumbled around me like an overcooked soufflé. My partner of three weeks had left me for someone who knew how to make hollandaise sauce. My succulent garden had succumbed to root rot. Even my sourdough starter, whom I had named Bradley, had given up the ghost after I forgot to feed him for a month while binge-watching a documentary series about competitive dog grooming.

I stood in my kitchen that morning, surrounded by the debris of my former life - unused spice racks, a dusty instant pot, and seventeen different types of salt I had purchased during what I now call my 'sodium phase.' The morning light filtered through my unwashed windows, casting long shadows that seemed to mock my culinary incompetence.

That's when I saw it. A single egg, sitting in the refrigerator door, last survivor of a dozen I had purchased with such hope three months earlier. It seemed to glow with possibility, or perhaps that was just the refrigerator light reflecting off its pristine shell. Either way, I knew in that moment that this egg and I were destined to embark on a journey together.

But first, let me take you back to my childhood, to understand why this simple egg held such profound meaning for me...