I must address you first, you fragile marvel of the universe, because you deserve far better than what I’ve given you. I’ve plucked you from nests, bought you from co-ops, and judged you in cartons, only to subject you to indignities you never sought. I’ve cracked, broken, scrambled, and fried you. I’ve folded you into soufflés and whipped you into cakes without so much as a thank-you. You have been the vital smurf of my culinary alchemy, the glue binding my macarons and mayonnaise, the very heart of my brunch culture. Yet, I’ve barely paused to acknowledge your service.
Worse still, I’ve participated in warping your image into an emblem of contradiction. I’ve made you both a metaphor for fragility and strength—a “shell of vulnerability” one minute, a “tough egg to crack” the next. I fling your name into idioms as if I understand you, but let’s face it: I don’t. I’ve allowed your brilliance to be overshadowed by your convenience. For that, I am thoroughly ashamed.
And you, noble bird: you clucking contradiction of badassery. You strut, you crow, you can apparently fly—and still, I’ve treated you as though your purpose is limited to feeding my insatiable appetite and literally being my oldest joke. You’ve given me wings to dip in sauce and legs to fry, yet I’ve turned around and caricatured you as a symbol of cowardice. HOW DARE I? You’re not “chicken.” You’re formidable. You’re fierce. If you’re such a coward, why is it so important for people to know why you did anything? No, ma’am. You don’t have to explain your motivations to me of anyone else.
And yet, what have I given you in return? I’ve supported an industry that too often forgets your dignity, and to add insult to injury, I’ve reserved respect for only the select few of your kind who can perform on tiny pianos, excel at tabletop games, or dazzle me as one half of a most delightful magic show. I am pretty sure no other trained animals are subjected to such horrors. Ask me how may bike-riding bears I’ve had deepfried and handed to me through a car window. I am a barbarian.
But perhaps my greatest offense lies not in how I’ve treated you individually, but in how I’ve pitted you against one another in one of the most bizarre of human debates: “Which one of you was first to exist?” What started, I’m almost certain, as a rhetorical jest has somehow jackknifed into an actual bottleneck of philosophical traffic james on my evening commutes to anywhere else worthy of my contemplation. Yet despite the utter insignigance of which of you begat the other, I’ve personally helped it devolve into a battlefield where biologists, theologians, and armchair philosophers all fight for supremacy.
I’ve used your lives, your existence, as a tool to prod at the very fabric of causality and creation. Did I ask if you wanted to be mascots for my existential dilemmas? Of course not. I just assumed you’d comply. And for that assumption—for dragging you into an argument neither of you volunteered for—I am profoundly sorry.
And yet, in all this overthinking, I’ve learned something about myself. Egg, you’ve shown me how much time I spend fretting over the cracks, obsessing about what might break, and missing the quiet strength that lies beneath. You’ve taught me that delicacy is not a flaw but a feature—that balance is found not in eliminating risks but in embracing what holds, what endures.
Chicken, my delicious friend, you’ve reminded me what it means to live with dualities. To carry labels like “cowardly” while strutting fearlessly, to be a source of both comfort and survival. You’ve taught me that resilience isn’t loud or grand—it’s about showing up, sacrificing, and telling the world “I get it. I’m versatile and you have an axe to grind. Well come and get me, you mother-clucker”
So to you both, for your resilience, talents, and the richness you bring to my table and my life, I issue this sternly worded apology in all paradoxical sincerity.
Yours,
An overthinker, perfectionist, and existential debater who forgot how much you’ve taught me
P.S. If you two ever sort out the order of things, please let me know. Until then, I’ll try to enjoy my breakfast without turning it into a philosophical crisis.
We’ve used your lives, your existence, as a tool to prod at the very fabric of causality and creation. Did we ask if you wanted to be mascots for existential dilemmas? Of course not. We just assumed you’d comply. And for that assumption—for dragging you into an argument neither of you volunteered for—we are deeply sorry.
And yet, in all this overthinking, I’ve learned something about myself. Egg, you’ve shown me how much time I spend fretting over the cracks, obsessing about what might break, and missing the quiet strength that lies beneath. You’ve taught me that delicacy is not a flaw but a feature—that balance is found not in eliminating risks but in embracing what holds, what endures.
Chicken, you’ve reminded me what it means to live with dualities. To carry labels like “cowardly” while strutting fearlessly, to be a source of both comfort and survival. You’ve taught me that resilience isn’t loud or grand—it’s about showing up, again and again, wings flapping, claws scratching, and making something of the day.
Both of you have taught me to stop chasing perfection and to let the messiness of life breathe a little. To appreciate the mystery, the unanswered questions, and even the existential loops that might never resolve. Sometimes it’s enough to marvel, to observe, to let things be.
To the Egg, for your unyielding service and unacknowledged brilliance. To the Chicken, for your resilience, talents, and the richness you bring to our tables and our lives. And to both of you, for being far more than the sum of our questions and debates. You deserved better from us, and I hope you’ll accept this apology in all its scrambled sincerity.
Yours contritely and clucking with remorse,
On behalf of every overthinker, perfectionist, and existential debater who forgot how much you’ve taught us
P.S. If you two ever sort out the order of things, please let us know. Until then, I’ll try to enjoy breakfast without turning it into a philosophical crisis.