Where were the eggs? Were the chickens on strike?
The chickens were on strike. They crossed their drumsticks and clucked: Nope. Perhaps it was wages, hours or conditions. Perhaps it was solidarity with their fellow food-service workers. Can't say. All I know is the cold case was bare, save for a sign: No eggs.
At first I shrugged. Egg salad isn't imperative; there's always tuna. As the strike dragged on, I worked out work-arounds. The egg-free chocolate-chip cookie can be managed, via cream cheese. The egg-free pancake can be managed, via yogurt. The egg-free hard-boiled egg? I was stumped.
As the days stretched sunnier, as plush bunnies began to peer from the endcaps, virtual eggs were suddenly plentiful, molded from chocolate, from plastic, from sugar. None of which take to dyeing. I paced the grocery-store aisles, scheming.
Then I noticed the cold case, plush with real eggs. Seems the chickens had reached a settlement, sparing me the heartbreak of carving an egg from tofu, simply for the pleasure of dyeing it pink.
