I LOVE EGGS.

Eggs are absolutely delicious. If there is a good argument against eggs, I’m not interested and therefore it doesn’t exist. poof.

I’ve always known eggs are awesome, but after my first viewing of Julie and Julia on the loveseat by my onesies last night, I was inspired to take the culinary bull by the horns: self, I says, tomorrow you will make Eggs Benedict from scratch for the first time ever because Julia Child was a complete b.a. AND YOU CAN BE TO! If that bland Julie character with the unfortunate haircut could do it, piece of cake.

Here’s where it gets complicated: I was SO excited to make Eggs Benedict this morning, I leaped out of bed at 10:00 (unusual), dragged the dog down the stairs, encouraged him to poop on our front stoop, and didn’t bother changing out of my jammies to confidently stride to the grocery store. These completed eggs would define me as a new woman like Julie and like Julia; I would be adventurous, out of the rut of my sometimes seemingly mapped-out and potentially boring and uneventful and eventually forgotten life once the planet explodes in like 100 years; I would be independent, goal-oriented, a strong woman.

Summary: Eggs=Womanhood.

Okay so, I’m ready to buy some butter and a whisk, right, and then: I am overcome with the overwhelming urge to drop all my parsley and Michael Cera-run home (this is the only time I’ve ever wished to be Michael Cera and it will never happen again, promise). If I actually tried to make these Eggs Benedict that would signal the start of my new strong womanhood where I would be the type to do more than make her graduate school department run out of red wine at cocktail parties (that’s a whole other story). And by trying, then, logically, I could fail. And like all people who say they “do” comedy , I probably would. And so, we can logically follow this minute failure to a larger failure of womanhood:

Neurosis and near paralysis causal of the equation Eggs Benedict=Womanhood.

So, I did something that scared me and risked my romantic vision of new selfhood. Mostly because the Upper East Side wants to charge me $21 for whisks, eggs and butter. I made hollandaise sauce from scratch (two. full. sticks. of. butter.) I fried some weirdo ham that I still don’t understand because it’s too fat to be ham but tastes like ham. AND. AND AND AND. I poached not one, but two eggs. Which is just like hard-boiling an egg but doing it to an egg that’s naked and vulnerable.

SO WHAT HAPPENED? The hollandaise sauce tasted like two sticks of melted butter, and the poached eggs barely made it through their ordeal to come out shaped like midget Quasimodos. But here’s what I like about cooking: it doesn’t fucking matter if it’s perfect. It’s busy, dirty hands rushing around and a brain planning ahead and an instant feeling of competence you don’t get many other places. So come over and I’ll make you super-awesome-mediocre-if-not-bad-Womanhoodly Eggs Benedict.