I last ate a prepared egg on Thanksgiving Day, 1961. Their viscosity makes me gag, the sulfurity makes me heave.
My father, a 10th generation Vermont subsistence farmer, thought my disdain for the ova which sustained his family when all else failed was Communistic in extremis. Eight AM he instructed my mother to fry (the most difficult form for me to ingest) two eggs and place them in front of me.
"You're sitting there (at attention) til they're et. No turkey, no stuffing, no cranberry, no pie, no nuthin."
I sat there in front of them, did not speak, gesture, slouch. Stared at the wall as dishes were cleared, reset for banquet, guests arrived, sympathizers squoze my shoulder, Thanksgiving feast served, consumed, taken down. Guests gone, baby sister put to bed.
An hour after my regular bedtime, my 13th hour at the table, "Go to bed" said my father and nodded for ma to take the plate away. I was never served an egg again. Cuffed each time i mentioned my triumph after that day, 92yo father stills looks like he wants to anytime i refer to the occasion in his presence, which i now regularly do.