The Death Factor (Because the “Kill Factor” was already taken)

I have the hardest time in the egg aisle.

See, I’ve always been bad at math. Calculating cents per egg, factoring in size and color and freshness date, to decide which dozen will go home with me and live in my fridge and die in my frying pan has been a challenge since becoming a post-dorm room adult.

But then, in the last year or so, I’ve added in the “death factor.”

I call it that because I started working for a suburban family, cooking meals for the kids and shuttling them to color guard and sleepovers. (Most people call this “nannying.” I think of it more like a butler/chauffeur/tutor/chef. This allows me to shrug off any actual parenting responsibilities. “It’s not in my job description.”) The mother of this family is an organic, free-range, gluten-free, naturally-sweetened woman. And she runs the household as such.

For instance, one day I was going to make tacos for dinner. She offered to stop at the grocery store and pick up anything I needed while she was out running errands. I asked for taco seasoning. She asked where that would be in the store. I said the taco aisle. A while later she returned, but I found no seasoning hiding between the fresh dog food and the wheat-grass.

“I’m sorry,” She said. “I looked and looked, but I couldn’t find anything without MSG. They put chemicals in everything. It’s absolutely awful.” The way she said it sounded like she was describing the Grinch stealing Christmas or some disgusting celebrity behavior from the back of the Enquirer.

She looked me in the eyes, urging me to listen. “That stuff will kill you.”


Now, I knew that already. I read food blogs, I’ve researched diets, and I have a grandmother that could tell you more in five minutes about healthy eating than you’d learn in an entire year of watching Dr. Oz.

But somehow, having this mother-figure look at me, pleading for me to reconsider wasting my life on taco seasoning, the death factor branded into my brain.

The unnatural, tightly-caged chickens produce eggs that can kill me. But how do you factor that in when you have $3 left in your grocery money and the dozen eggs that will let you live past the age of 25 will cost you $3.99?

I don’t know the answer. I’m just sharing my struggle. My struggle with the egg aisle. And the death factor. But I have to say I almost always choose non-death eggs.

Maybe it’s just me, but I find it very hard to justify dying young because of an egg.  And I really like eggs.


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