Like all pre-menopausal women, Bett produced a monthly egg. But it wasn’t like the egg of other women. It was more like a condor’s.
And none of her eggs had ever hatched. Bett assumed that if she kept one warm, like good mothers should, it would in time vibrate and crack open. And there would be her baby.
Or likely not, due to lack of fertilization. Bett had no boyfriend.
So she ate them. Over easy. Sunny side up. Scrambled.
They even poached.
And they were great with grits.