I used to think egg cartons were boring.
A dozen eggs. A date. Maybe a smiling chicken somewhere on the label. Grab, pay, leave.
Then one dinner party quietly changed how I look at eggs forever.
The Night I Accidentally Ruined Dinner
A few years ago, I hosted a small dinner for friends. Nothing fancy — good company, a homemade quiche, and a recipe I’d made dozens of times before.
Same ingredients. Same oven. Same confidence.
We ate. We laughed. And about an hour later… things took a turn.
No ambulances. No dramatic emergencies. Just pale faces, awkward silences, and the kind of stomach noises no host ever wants echoing through their living room.
I knew instantly something was wrong.
As the host, the guilt hit hard. I replayed every step in my head. Every ingredient. Every shortcut.
Eventually, all roads led to one place.
The eggs.
They didn’t smell bad. They weren’t slimy. The expiration date said they were fine.
And yet, clearly, they weren’t.
That’s when I learned the most important egg lesson of my life — hidden in plain sight on the side of the carton.
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