I thought I was serving love in a pie dish. Instead, I watched my guests shift uncomfortably, faces paling, forks abandoned mid-bite. No bad smell, no slime, no obvious warning. Just a slow, creeping dread as people went home early and I lay awake replaying every step. The answer was there all along, in three tiny numbers I’d always ignored, printed on the side of the car… Continues… I learned later that those three digits were the Julian date—the exact day of the year the eggs were packed. My “fine” eggs had been sitting far longer than I realized. They...
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