Below is a conversation I had, twice, with a former roommate.
Matt: You’re a vegetarian, right?
Me [making eggs in the kitchen]: Technically I’m a pescatarian. I eat fish, but not beef or poultry or anything.
Matt: Then I guess whether or not you eat eggs depends where you stand on abortion. Like, when does life begin? You’re eating a fetal chicken.
Both times, I explained the miracle of life: An egg has to be fertilized before it can turn into a chicken. I wasn’t eating fetal chicken. I was eating the equivalent of a chicken’s period. (Sorry, I hope you’re not eating right now.)
Work Cathy and I were discussing how much or little science education we received in elementary school. I remembered building a rock collection in kindergarten and weighing guinea pigs with little metric scales in Mrs. Graham’s sixth grade class. I also remembered how, in tenth grade biology, Mr. K wanted to start the year off with sex ed, even though our textbook wouldn’t get to “family life” until Chapter 15. Mr. K was a little bit of a pervert.
But I guess I learned where babies come from. Now that more people I know are having them and my ears have perked up to such things, I’m amazed by how much I still have to learn. The fact that one’s period serves as more than just biblical punishment only truly sunk in recently. It makes the cramps marginally less sucky.
I try to buy free-range eggs these days, and I’ve noticed that a lot of them have a tiny spot of blood in the yolk. In other words: fertilized. Those free-range chickens really like to free range, if you know what I mean. I always fry those eggs up anyway.