Their gooey yellow centers repulse me. Their fluffy white marshmallow surrounds can induce my gag reflex upon a single sighting. Eggs. Add sugar, milk, flour, and some butter and you've got a cake. Vary the ingredients slightly and you've got any number of different creations - pancakes, muffins, scones; an egg will take you a long way. Versatile eggs. Ubiquitous eggs. Horrible, loathsome eggs.
Most children have a particular food they dislike as they're growing up, for some it's brussel sprouts (I never had a problem with brussels, but hell, they sure do make your pee smell funny), for others spinach, and still others despise pumpkin. Me? Growing up I hated eggs. Thinking back to my childhood, the unholy balls of goo hadn't reached the terrible prominence that they occupy in my life today. I disliked them, but I could look at them on another's plate and not be put off the meal in front of me.
But that was all to change when Muriel entered my life. If you were to exhume Karen Carpenter's anorexic corpse and place it in a pair of ratty pink moccasins, you'd have an idea of what Muriel looked like. With Sunken cheeks, eyes so crinkled they made a 'craw' noise every time she cast a glance your way, and skin the dreary stucco of a fifties weatherboard house, Muriel was a wraith that still haunts my nightmares to this very day.
I can still see Muriel standing there, wearing a dressing gown at three in the afternoon, defiantly blowing a cigarette's pungent smoke straight into my nine year old eyes. I remember the movies that she'd put on, movies that someone my age shouldn't have been watching. And I remember her terrible children; they were older than me and intensely nasty. Who could blame them I guess. If she treated them with half as much contempt as she treated me then it's no surprise they ended up being bratty little shits.
You're probably wondering how all this ties into my dislike for eggs. Well, let me tell you. One time, during one of my delightful stays at Muriel's place she summoned us inside for lunch. I'm sure you can guess what she'd cooked. The eggs were done in the style that requires you to eat them from the shell; hardboiled I think it's called. I begged and pleaded, but Muriel was not one for clemency. I choked and gagged as she force-fed me. Yoke juice the color of a Fanta can ran down my chin. The terrible stench of egg assaulted my nostrils. I began to cry.
On that terrible day I developed the only phobia that I possess (I believe my fear of churches is quite rational as I seem to start sizzling and smoking every time I go near one). I'll dry-retch if I see an egg or smell one cooking. I can't eat foods which include obvious signs of egg - think quiche, meringue, or smoothies; and, if someone reminds me that there is egg in less obvious foods - think cake or pancake - then I'll be unable to eat those foods on the occasion that it's brought to my attention. I guess what I'm trying to say is that egg horrifies me, and yes, Muriel, that fucking harpy, horrified me too.