A few years ago I was home for Christmas at my parents' house in Illinois, and I lost my shit over an old egg. We're talking giant adult tantrum here. I cracked an egg into the frying pan and the white didn't even pretend to have integrity. It ran everywhere. It was like I had cracked an egg and milk had come out. I found the situation completely intolerable. It may be curmudgeonly to poo-poo a place because access to fresh eggs is limited, but that is what I did. My total condemnation of the suburb where my parents raised me came down to one loose egg. "Piece of shit supermarket eggs," I said. "I cannot wait to go home." I'd had it. Life was hard enough as it was. That egg pushed me over the edge.
I've grown up a bit since then, and I've learned not to get so frustrated by eggs that are beyond my control. If I could collect all the energy I've spent in frustration over loose egg whites, well, actually, it wouldn't amount to a ton of energy. I was about to say that it wasn't worth it, that all my frustration was a waste, but it wasn't a waste. I am vigilant about my eggs now. If I were to move to a place where I could not find fresh eggs, I would consider leaving. We can't have everything in this life—so much of it is beyond our control—but we can make a few piddly demands. We can draw the line somewhere. I draw the line at eggs. Eggs and a gas range. I would NEVER live in a place with an electric range. Runny egg whites on an electric stove top would kill me.