I don't eat eggs. If I can see them, smell them, or taste them in a dish, it's not a dish for me. This aversion began at 6th grade science camp. My cabin was on breakfast duty... twelve twelve-year-old girls rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and stumbling into the kitchen for their assignments. Mr. Fuller, a jolly man with prematurely white hair who smelled like pipe smoke, handed me a grand, gaping aluminum bowl and tasked me with the cracking of six point two billion eggs.
One of the members of the kitchen staff, a boy with a ponytail that swung to his waist (and not a hair net in sight!), led me to my portion of the countertop and asked if I had cracked eggs before. I turned to give him a witheringly incredulous look. Of course I had cracked eggs! Who did he think I was?
But he was cute. My hands tingled and my slender arms warmed and went pink. I had recently found myself at that lovely, painful dawn of womanhood whence a girl begins to be affected by the physicality of boys. Immediately, I redirected my eyes from his sweet, freckled face to my shoes.
I considered what Paulette Goddard might do if asked such a condescending question by such a handsome young man. I knew, of course, that the brash, witty brunette starlet would flirt. Oh! And then she'd regain the upper hand by humbly allowing herself to be taught and then revealing her skills after the fact... like Greer Garson as Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice (1940), besting Mr. Darcy with her bow and arrow only after he assumed her ignorance of the sport and physically placed her fingers on the feathered end of the arrow, "Like so."