Chicken-Feet-Egg-Cups_2DF1DE24Simon loves eggs.  He loves to touch them, count them, crack them into bowls and stir them.  He loves to help me with every step in making scrambled eggs.  He loves to eat them.

PBS taught him something more about eggs.  PBS taught him about the miracle of babies hatching from eggs.  And hatching is what Simon thought he was about to witness when he came into the kitchen to hear the sound of hard boiled egg crackling as I rolled it on the counter top.  His face lit up.  “You hatching it!  You hatching it!” he screamed at me in gleeful excitement.

Oh God.

How do I explain to this sweet child the perversion of eating the unborn babies of chickens, suspended in the yolk and fluid that should have nourished them until they really do hatch?  How do I explain that there is no baby about to emerge from this egg, that there is only death within?  How do I explain the consequences of a horrible choice made in a Garden so far removed from our lives?  How do I explain that I am about to eat this dead thing?

With deep regret and guilt, bracing myself for his disappointment and pain, I gently correct his vocabulary, “No, Buddy.  Not hatching.  I’m only peeling it.”  I cringe at the horror in my own words.

Simon howls back at me, “NOOOOOO!  You hatching it!  Not peeling!  HATCHING!”

I want to cry.  “Oh, sweetheart.  I’m peeling it.”  I finish the grisly deed under running water and show him the results.  My appetite for eggs is gone.

His eyes light up, “I want a bite!”