Yolk tales about the benefits of eggs

When I first moved to Dubai, I encountered eggs with bright orange yolks. I seemed to be only breaking eggs with a disgustingly potent colour burst inside.

A lot of people tell me my refrigerator is just a front to flaunt fridge magnets. Of course, that's not entirely true. There are times - like right after my weekend excursion to the supermarket - when my fridge is neatly stocked. Then, there are also times when my fridge is down to bare bones. I always blame my challenging workday - and social (and not-so-social) obligations that descend upon me at the end of the day - for not taking stock of my fridge's relevant contents (or the unnecessary details: like blue cheese I liked the sound of, but never ate, and that is now a mouldy little heap in one corner, right next to the shrivelled curry leaves I bought three months ago).
But however outrageously challenging or social my week turns out, you'll always find eggs in my refrigerator; they're a fixture in my life, not one day goes by without them.
Eggs gave me my first tryst with cooking (omelettes, scrambled with milk and butter, sunny side up, French toasts) and have been a mainstay all my life: initially the perfect stopgap (not lunchtime but hungry? Let me make myself an omelette or a couple of frenchies), before turning into an orderly eating disorder. There were times when I had eggs for breakfast, lunch and dinner (as kids, we used to have egg-whisking competitions at home: whoever could beat up the stiffest egg white peaks for an omelette - the yolk was delivered into the mix as the finishing touch - would be anointed omelette master). When I first started living alone, they were the ultimate convenience food. On most nights, dinner was bread and eggs. To be followed by more bread and eggs for breakfast in the morning.
The best part is, I love eggs. They are never an imposition. Never have been. Always been a pleasure. And I've been proud to note its rising health arc (its 'one-stop vitamin store' status, its good cholesterol, its cancer-fighting properties have all been the subject for lively medical debates); it's been as rapid as smoking's tragic fall.
There'll always be the nostalgia. Hard-boiled eggs my grandmother would pack for zoo picnics and overnight train journeys. My omelettes being hailed as being "the best in the world" by unexpected guests who had dropped by to see my ailing mother (I had to serve them something since they had undertaken a short train journey from the suburbs to come home); I was 11. The 90s' television jingle: Sunday ho ya Monday, roz khao ande [Whether it's Sunday or Monday, have an egg every day]. Being called an 'egghead' by my cousin, and not "getting it" (thus proving him wrong). Assuming for the longest time that fried eggs and poached eggs were one and the same thing - and then being reproached by my egg-loving uncle who, somehow, thought it was uncouth I didn't know the difference. I don't think there's a single edible thing in the world that evokes so many memories as eggs do.
But like with all things important and valued, I've had a mindset vis-à-vis them. I only consider eggs with yellow, not orange, yolks to be eggs. Maybe it has to do with "sunny side up": when the sun is "up" - in the sky - it's always a golden yellow; it's only orange when it's going down.
When I first moved to Dubai, I encountered eggs with bright orange yolks. I seemed to be only breaking eggs with a disgustingly potent colour burst inside. I remember, buying packet after packet of eggs, different brand names all, in the hope of a yellow sighting. No luck. Exasperated, I called up my newly-made friends and gave vent to my frustrations. They comforted me with insights such as 'orange' eggs are actually far healthier, but I wasn't buying.
Down the line, I lucked out. After painstaking market research, I identified a few egg boxes that offered what I was looking for, and it's all good now. Eggs, as usual, are living up to my eggs-pectations.
sushmita@khaleejtimes.com