I was baking cookies last night, and I doubled the batch so Christian could take some to work without depriving me of my 3 am cookie fix. He took all of my cookies to work a few months ago to make everyone like him and I was deeply pissed. I had been fantasizing all day about that big, dense block of sugar and caramel chocolate chips I was going to have as soon as I got home only to run into the kitchen and find a little pile of crumbs. I was wrathful.
I had to use four eggs, so I cracked two and glanced in the bowl. Hmmmm...four yolks?
So, I checked the sink and yes, two shells. I cracked one more egg and another double yolk slid slimily into the bowl. Ah, modern farming science. There's nothing akin to growth hormones for adding flavor to my eggs. I'd like a second puberty, please, with my souffle.
It does raise the question, though, of whether or not a double yolk in the chicken coop would mean twin baby chicks. It seems that the shell would be awfully small.