About this time every year, my husband begins buying eggs-lots of them. Just last week he brought home two dozen more. "Who are you?" I asked. "The Easter Bunny?" His motivation mystifies me. It's not like we dye them, or hide them in the yard for grandchildren. Besides, that holiday is long past.
     I ate a lot of eggs as a child. In grade school, we were often required to attend morning Mass. Once I had received my First Holy Communion (second grade), I wasn't allowed to eat anything from midnight until after church the next morning. Following Mass, settled in my classroom, I was permitted to assuage growling hunger pains with the hard-boiled egg Mom had packed for my breakfast. She always included a tiny, blue, cardboard shaker of Morton salt. Those mornings, I knew the best hard-boiled egg was slightly warm, had a hint of green around the outside of the yoke, and was showered with salt.
     The worst eggs I ever ate-was forced to eat-were hot, soft-boiled eggs, mashed in butter by my father. I shoveled them in as fast as possible and held them in my mouth, pretending to chew. Then I mumbled an, "Excuse me," fled up the stairs to the bathroom, and spit the mushy mess into the toilet.
     The best eggs ever-before he learned about cholesterol-were also made by my dad. As they fried in the heavy, cast iron skillet where he had just cooked bacon, Dad spooned bacon grease over them until they were cooked to perfection. The yolk was rock hard and the white edges were ruffled to a crunchy, crispy brown.
     Over the years, my egg consumption waned. The discovery that my favorite brunch food, an omelet stuffed with ham, cheddar, and co-jack cheese wasn't as healthy as I had been led to believe, forced me to give up on them altogether. Until, that is, I tried an egg white omelet cooked with fresh basil, tomatoes and pine nuts. Low in cholesterol, I pronounced it healthy and nummy. Without the yolk, my doctor pronounced it low in protein. Back to the drawing board.
     Now I use one yolk for every three eggs. Mixed with soy milk, they're not yellow, but a bland off-white. Scrambled with lots of brightly colored vegetables, the eggs are so pale we call them booger eggs. Then we laugh so hard we're doubled over, making snorting piggy sounds in the back of our throats.
     And that's what we did last Sunday night, even though, as we headed towards home after a long day running errands, my husband suggested we stop to pick up some dinner along the way. "Are you kidding?" I asked. "You come hop-hop-hopping home with two dozens eggs in your basket and now you want to spend money on take-out? All those eggs are going to expire soon and we'll end up throwing them out."
     Truly, looking at him across the front seat of the car, I saw a rabbit behind the steering wheel. He twitched his nose and stroked his long white ears as though he was deep in rabbit reverie. "Yes," he said. "Booger eggs would be just dandy." And we laughed until we became giddy.