I have lived a regrettable amount of my life as an egg skeptic. Throughout childhood I refused to eat them, any style. Scrambled, fried, poached—whatever, I wasn't having them. Eggs were such foreign territory, I had no idea that cooked yolks could be served either creamy and firm or molten and dripping, though I suspect knowledge of the latter would have concerned me. By high school I had softened to the idea of a cheese omelet. Then college hit, along with a two year stint as a vegan. That meant 730 more eggless days, and an equal amount of time spent convincing myself that I wanted tofu scramble for breakfast. Part of my resistance, I'm sure, came from standard-issue picky eating, of which I had plenty. But I think there was also a fear of commitment because deep down, I surely knew I would eventually come around to eggs. And when I did, I would be a goner.