Peter and I have been married so long that we have our own shortcut statements (much like the prisoners who numbered jokes that they’ve told so often that they can get a laugh just by shouting “twenty-two!”).
“Two eggs” is our shortened version of “We’re so old we should do whatever we want to do without thinking about whether it’s bad for us. (“Two eggs” came from an experience related by my Aunt Ruth many years ago. Her elderly sister-in-law, also my aunt, was told by her nursing home that she could only have one egg because she should watch her cholesterol. “For goodness sakes,” shouted Aunt Ruth, “this woman is almost ninety—let her eat two eggs!”)
As for real eggs, we tend to have a soft boiled egg for breakfast on the weekends when we are not so rushed. ONE soft boiled egg. So imagine my surprise when Peter boiled two for himself on Saturday. “Wow,” I said. “Two eggs!”