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Just when I thought I had it all figured out… I've been so all about la vida locavore—loving summer, hitting the farmer's markets and mom-and-pop farm stands that use the honor system. Not only do I leap at the chance to promote good karma, but Saturday morning I picked up bag of potatoes for a buck. Seriously. $1. 

For ages now I've been getting my eggs from any of several farms up the road. Sometimes they're so fresh, I have to wait for them to get cleaned off. Oh, and those half-billion eggs recalled last August? Didn't bat an eye. Not even when my beloved came home in a panic. “Don't worry,” I told him. “We're safe. Come on, I'll take you to visit the hens who laid those eggs you had over easy this morning.”

 He was relieved. I was…let's just say it—a little smug. 

FFFFFFTT!

The Universe just sent a curve ball whizzing past my head. 

I've never made any secret of my love for eggs. Not just from those happy, free-wandering chickens—all eggs: quail eggs, duck eggs—even one very impressive ostrich egg. Freakin' yum.

Can delicious irony rival a perfectly poached duck egg nestled atop creamy corn grits and a side of sautéed kale and red onions? If it can, then here it is… albeit served up cold.

All of a sudden and out of the proverbial blue, I'm allergic to eggs.

FFFFFFTT!

Didn't I have a wheat thing? Didn't I just give up toast?

Does it matter that I buy wheat flour that is locally grown and milled or that my eggs come from the farmer up the road?

No, says my new friend, Ana Phylaxis. 

Great. Now what?