It's true confession time. I mean, isn't that why people read blogs? At least, back in the day. A peek into someone’s "secret" online diary—a chance to pull back the curtain on someone else’s quirks, making us feel better about our own. “Oh, sure, I wrap hamsters in duct tape, but get a load of this weirdo!” Ah, the turn of the century. How I miss it.

Wait—shit! That was almost a quarter of a century ago. So many apocalypses since then. I still remember when the clock struck midnight, transitioning us from 1999 to 2000. The sound of fireworks surrounded everyone, coming from everywhere, and didn’t die down for a good 20 minutes. You could feel the joy and hope in the air. Here it was, "the year 2000."

Of course, we weren’t exactly free to enjoy it. There was the looming threat of the "Y2K bug," where the world’s computer systems would supposedly reset to 1901 (or some such nonsense), plunging us all into chaos and giving us the first official limp-dick apocalypse of the century. Foreshadowing is always most impressive in hindsight.

I hate eggs. That’s the confession. I hate them. I'd say, "I can’t stand them," but clearly, I can—because I eat them all the time. Still, there’s always this psychic gag reflex when I do. Sometimes I even enjoy them, but there’s always something off about the experience. I’ve never fully understood it.

Legend has it that each fold in a French chef’s toque represents a different way to use an egg. I used to laugh when Iron Chef Sakai would hold a pear to represent French cuisine. He should’ve been holding an egg, a bottle of wine, and a pound of butter. Forget onions, celery, and bell peppers—that’s French cuisine’s real “holy trinity.”

I work hard to make eggs work for me. The yolk doesn’t bother me, as long as it’s not overcooked. I like it right when it’s transitioning from liquid to solid, turning that vivid orange, like a butterscotch disc.

Oh God, it’s happening! I’m getting older and making hard-candy metaphors! Can that dish of dusty sugar clumps be far behind? Whatever, kids.

The albumin—the "white" part—now that I can’t get past. I have very little use for it, except maybe in meringues, which are useful and largely inoffensive. But in my mind, albumin is something to be mitigated, not enjoyed. It’s a shame, too. It’s just low-calorie protein. But I’m struggling to explain my aversion, so I must resort to excessive metaphor.

Imagine KY Jelly had an unholy lovechild with a loogie. Now imagine that lovechild is a bit of a prankster, jumping out to startle people for fun. That’s my metaphor. I think you get me.

I love Eggs Benedict—the English muffin, the Canadian bacon, properly executed Hollandaise, and expertly poached eggs. Maybe some crispy O’Brien potatoes on the side. It’s a classic, and it’s pretty. I love cutting into the middle and letting the yolk run out, blending with the Hollandaise. It’s magical. Until that damned lube-loogie jumps out and encases your potatoes, reminding you of the bite you’re chewing. Turns out those eggs weren’t quite so expertly poached after all.

That’s why I don’t like eggs, and why I dread ordering them at restaurants. It doesn’t mean I won’t—the “Danger is my middle name” part of me hasn’t yet been emasculated by time—but it’s always a risk. I take that risk because, at the end of the day (or the beginning), the most satisfying meals I’ve ever had dining out were breakfasts.

I’ve spent a lot of time with eggs as my primary ingredient, trying to figure out how I prefer them. I’ve looked at cooking temperatures, protein coagulation, and whether salt should be added before or after cooking. Frying, boiling, poaching, baking—I’ve experimented with it all. Some of my best dishes have come from trying to enjoy foods I don’t like. There’s a broader lesson there, not just about food, but about life. Pushing boundaries, grappling with things outside your comfort zone—sometimes it works out. Sometimes it doesn’t. But isn’t concrete knowledge better than living in abstract fear?

It took me a long time to master "boiled eggs." I can’t call them hard-boiled or soft-boiled—I just call them "boiled." For most home cooks, hard-boiled means tough, rubbery whites and greenish, powdery yolks you can smell from ten feet away. Soft-boiled is subjective and always risks surprise egg-snot. I like mine with the albumin completely gelatinized and opaque, but still tender, and the yolk just starting to firm up. That’s my version of perfect—portable, but you’ll need a napkin or toast.

I swear, I have the longest introductions on Earth. I'm a page and a half in, and I’m only now getting to the point. I’d like to call out my own hypocrisy here because it’s worth noting. If someone came up to me and took this long to convey information, I’d feel an intense need to punch them in the throat. Yet, here I am, doing the same thing. Maybe I should rethink my social interactions.

Yeah, that seems likely.

But there’s a difference. You have to volunteer to read something like this. It’s not like someone walking up to you and violating your earholes with unnecessary backstory just to tell you they hate scrambled eggs.

Speaking of scrambled eggs—in this country, they come two ways: dry, unmixed, and reeking of brimstone, or snotty and cool. I guess you could count the stuff that comes out of those milk cartons I used to slam down in the corporate world. That product was uniform, but 10 seconds on a steam table and it turned into yellow bits of foam rubber. It made decent French toast, though.

I don’t like dry eggs. They taste too much like eggs. Snotty eggs taste better, believe it or not, but they’re... snotty. So I cook mine "English style," which yields creamy, moist scrambled eggs that don’t taste too eggy or feel slimy.

The other day, I made some for breakfast, and like a dutiful food blogger, I cross-posted a pic on Facetagram, garnished with freshly grated Parm and red pepper flakes. I only posted it because I was having eggs on toast instead of my usual breakfast tacos, and I wanted to point out that it was still basically a taco. I love pointing out my contradictions—it keeps me honest.

Anyway, someone asked for the recipe and quantities. That’s really what this post is about—scrambled eggs and the Isley Brothers.

I can tell you how I scramble eggs for me, based on my own bizarre criteria. I can tell you to fire up the pan on medium heat while you tend to your toast. Whisk the eggs until homogenous, adding a dash of Lea & Perrins, fresh-cracked black pepper, and a pinch of salt (yes, I salt my pre-cooked scrambled eggs). When the toast is done and your eggs are whisked, add salted, clarified butter to the pan. Let the eggs set on the bottom before stirring vigorously until almost done. Take them off the heat, top your toast to avoid overcooking, and garnish with fresh Parm and red pepper flakes. I can even give you exact quantities—but these are my eggs, made for me, based on what I wanted and what I had at the time.

So, I’m answering this guy’s post, making the same eggs the next day, weighing everything, making notes, trying to explain it more concisely than I did in that last paragraph. And all the while, the Isley Brothers are reminding me that this is ultimately bullshit. These are my eggs, for me, to suit my tastes and my quirks. Once he makes them, they become his—and what, how, and why should be adjusted to suit his tastes.

The best I can do is guide. But to anyone, I say: "It’s your thing. Do what you wanna do. I can’t tell you how to enjoy your eggs."