Cluck with me if you wish to peel back the yolk of time; there exists a chicken and yet also an egg. Rumor has it they are involved in a suspicious love triangle with a frying pan.
As philosopher-chefs around the culinary world have debated: “Can the egg really be trusted?” It once told me it had excellent shell-etiqutte and surprisingly emo whites. Some say it's an existential thing, others propose it's because "Omelette you finish, but scrambled was one of the best eggs of all time!"
Are eggs more existential in the refrigerator or the oven? Witness a conundrum unfold before your very eyes. Will they become something greater or remain in their current fragile state a lot like you after a third cup of coffee?
Embark deeper into the labyrinthine yolk: Boiling Point or Into the Egg's Shadow