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I don't totally know what eggs are--chicken eggs that is. I mean, I know what the egg is, but I don't really get why they are the way they are. Does that make sense? I think they're tasty, but I prefer not to think about what they actually are. I guess I'm not that easily grossed out. I can handle most things that make people cringe. But, animals. Well, I just don't like eating them all that much.

I'd gotten those little blood specks in my eggs before. I never really considered it all that much. I figured it was something to do with the baby chick to be--had the egg been fertilized, but, eh, just shrugged it off.

I always called it the embryo, though. For no reason. I didn't really think it was an embryo. Just called it one.

So, the other night when we were making cupcakes, there was a little blood speck in one of the eggs. And, as usual, I called it an embryo.

That elicited much uproar from my baking buddy who, upon closure examination, confirmed that it was, indeed, an embryo. And that she even saw a little eye in the tiny speck (about the size of half a grain of rice). I laughed (uncomfortably) and peeked into the bowl myself. There was definitely something in the speck. But, an eye? After much negotiation, we extracted the "soon-to-be" baby chick from the cupcake. She offered to explore it under a microscope. But she was just kidding--unfortunately. I would have been delighted to actually see the little bugger in high definition.

Instead, he (she? It's probably too early to tell) went in the trash can. I have yet to take out the trash. Weird as it is, the remains of the past potential for a little baby chicken now RIP in the blue spinny top canister in the corner of the kitchen. I might have to get that out tonight. I can't bear to sleep with the dearly departed just a few rooms away.