Egg eye on the prize ...

Whenever I learn about something new to me, then hear about it again soon after, I assume it is the universe nudging me to investigate. This *thing* and I obviously have some sort of dinner date with fate. I almost always listen to the universe.

This is how the Scotch Egg became my spirit animal.

First Chuck mentioned this food, which sounded like one of the more delicious way to regret the fragility of a ventricle.

Then a few days later my friend posted a photograph on Facebook of the Scotch Eggs he was about stuff into his Sharpie hole, and this bit of Space Shuttle poetry:

I heard that loud and clear: My Spirit Animal was on the menu like 2 miles from our house.

I made a special date with myself to eat Scotch Eggs at this diner that is less of a diner-diner and more of a place where they might add beets and fennel to the hash browns. True story, although I opted for the regular hash browns. Too much clever in one day makes me wonky.

And on a Saturday morning I was presented with this:

Two hard-boiled eggs wrapped in a silt of meat flecks and bread crumbs. Deep fried. With the aforementioned side of hollandaise. Hell, yes, it was good.