Eggs. Cooked any which way, any desired texture. To my surprise, most people in my class prefer well done eggs, steaks, and custard. Their exposure must be limited due to the fact that I feed my puppy these very same items. With an appetite to learn and a willingness for eternal foodie hunger, I pushed these non-essential details aside and focused on the task at hand: Fry, Flip, Repeat.

We set our stations up with eggs, butter, pans, and spatulas. Butter the pan, break the egg, swirl, flip, repeat.Use the spatula and you get hit on the wrist with one. Is that why we brought them to our stations?

The simplest of all tasks, cracking the egg, is the first step that I learned in the womb. It's a skill that should be managable for any furry, smart-ass saber-tooth mammoth in culinary school to be an expert on. At least I thought so...

Cracking eggs can be done with one hand or two, depending on grip and girth (get your mind out of the gutter, will ya?). I always crack with two hands, which allows for non-breakage of the gooey yolk. I also use this technique so the yolk doesn't splooge all over (Oh, stop it). The girl next to me, found this task difficult.

Yes. This task.

We had a dozen eggs each to practice with. Chef told us if we needed any more that a career change might be a healthy option. Anyways, this girl broke the yolk on 12 eggs. In a row. When the yolk is broken, it's unusable for any overeasy, overmedium, or overhard egg that is being prepared. It can be used for scramby eggs, but we weren't working on those. Someone should of told this chick. So, being the charming fella that I am, I suggested, "Hey, try breaking it with two hands. Might have some better luck." She agreed, and tried again.

8 more broken. In a row. Once again, idiotically, I spoke.

"Maybe I can break the eggs for you?"

She replied, "Na. I got this, nooka."

NOOKA? REALLY? What is that? Isn't that what my 1 year old nephew uses when we want him to be quiet? I decided to stay in my own station and work on my perfect eggs.

Break two eggs into pan. Fry, swirl, flip, repeat.

These look like boobies!

The chef's were walking around and checking everyone's eggs for overeasy, overmedium, and overhard quality. They walked by mine: good, good, good. My partner's: good, good, good. The girl next to me: good, good, good.

Wait...good? You mean those 20 eggs broken and burnt to hell? Those are the good ones? Or am I missing something here?

He continued critiquing mindlessly.

The heat of the stove top, the screams of cut open ligaments, the too loud hood fans, the stinky mop water smell, the silly chef's hats, the crying from onions, the extreme looks of happiness and despair, the vulgar language used, and the product development from start to finish is why I'm here. I may be surrounded by idiots sometimes, but is there a job where you're not?

Yeah, that's what I thought. Boo-ya Lola.