So, you know how when the store employee comes up and says Can I help you? and you're thinking There's not a snowball's chance in you-know-where but then you go ahead and take the plunge to ask for help anyway in spite of the fact that previous experience is screaming Stop! Back away!?
Yeah.
Do you have any pasteurized eggs?
The Worker looks at me and he is pursing his lips and pulling them to one side, like that Rugrats kid. Angelica, yes.
Note: The Daught does a mean impression of that kid.
He has longish dark hair and he flips it, a little. When he speaks he has an accent, French I think, and I am suddenly imagining him in a beret.
Pasture eggs? I do not know of such things. He calls to a buddy, a larger dude, hairless to speak of, who is balancing several cartons of eggs on his belly.
Do we have eggs from zee pastures?
Buddy looks confused by The Frenchman's question.
No, I am saying, pasteurized eggs. The Frenchman's hands land on his hips. Are you meaning eggs that come from zee chicken in zee pastures? I do not know of chickens in pastures.
Buddy laughs.
I am thinking about how all American children learn about Louis Pasteur, who, with a name like that has got to be French and how he saves all of our lives from germs and stuff in our food supply through the process of pasteurization but somehow The Frenchman seems oblivious to the greatest achievement of his Fellow Countrymen, so far as I know, except perhaps for the croissant, which is plenty impressive.
Note: Okay, fine. I don't eat croissants.
So, finally I just grab a dozen eggs laid by certified free-range chickens which is very close to a pasture-ized egg, yes.
Heck, yes!
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