My argument is simple, and it comes from two years on the 19-a-week meal plan and hundreds of eggs-and-hash-browns breakfasts: consistency is key, and dining hall eggs are more consistent than most things in my life 

No, I am not a football player, or Jill’s son, or a Bon Appetit simp. I am an honest man who eats the same thing every day for breakfast and has grown to like it. Are the eggs chef quality, or fit for a five-star restaurant? No. But they’re consistent, they’re protein, they’re always there, and I always eat them. 

In a world with volatile markets, new carpets, and the Russia-Ukraine war, is it all that far-fetched that I’ve grown to appreciate a little consistency? Every morning I can expect the same thing: a genuinely friendly “good morning” from the saint at the front desk, a short line, an open booth, and eggs that deliver (at least some) nutrients every. single. time. 

Dining hall eggs are good because they attain their end. Also, don’t judge weekday eggs by the standard of weekend eggs—the yellow jello they serve on Saturday and Sunday has nothing on the slightly more textured eggs that grace our plates the rest of the week, (unless it’s parent’s weekend, then they’re better than even Finish Line.)

A visiting professor once said that complaining about inconsequential matters is one of the most atheistic things you can do, because it ignores the great blessings to be found in each day. It is my simple contention that you have better targets for grievance than mass-produced eggs; bemoaning the eggs’ lack of poultry ancestry is a paltry complaint.

The undercooked sausage on the other hand—now that’s a whole different matter.