A British woman has hatched three ducklings she named Beep, Peep and Meep from eggs she bought at supermarket chain Waitrose.

"I got the idea from a video that popped up on my Facebook feed of someone hatching quail eggs," she told CNN.

"That was my original plan but whilst I was in Waitrose I saw the duck eggs and thought they might work too. Mum and I had briefly spoken about getting some ducks after lockdown anyway.

"Part of me thought it would never work, none of the quail eggs developed but after 6 days in the incubator I checked the duck eggs and could see veins and a very tiny wiggly embryo. Then the excitement kicked in."

Full story here.

I’ll be honest, I thought supermarket eggs were a few more steps removed from birth. That’s the way it should be. I’m sorry. I’m a monster. I’m sorry. I know this reflects poorly on me. I’m a prime example of people putting removing themselves from the food they eat. I’ve got a weird things with eggs, ok? I’m not a hunting guy, haven’t fired a gun, and I killed one fish semi-accidentally with a rock and I’m still racked with guilt. (By semi-accidentally, I mean I meant to drop a rock on it but I didn’t mean to kill it- does that come out to manslaughter? Or is that 3rd degree murder?) Regardless of that, I think if I was hunting and did kill a deer, that I would be able to eat it. 

All that being said, all sense of being spiritually connected to the animal goes out the window when we start talking eggs. I don’t know whether it’s the combination of birth fluids or my imagination running wild with eating unborn animals, but it’s out of control. I couldn’t eat sushi for years because the fish eggs on top made me want to hurl. The craziest part of this is, I love eggs! Big two egg a day guy here. I love an egg in every form: hard boiled, soft boiled,  scrambled, over easy, over hard, fried, poached, deviled, bejeweled, you name it. Try not to be too impressed with my egg knowledge.

I exist firmly, and comfortably, in a world where the eggs I eat are six or seven degrees of separation from the eggs that hatch living organisms. I just assume those things have been zapped with radiation, or electricity, or hormones that knock them out of contention for hatching EARLY. Not only that, but I’d like to think that if I happen to let a carton sit on the counter for a couple hours that I won’t suddenly be a father of six! Call me soft, I don’t care. You’re right! But mark my words, if you step to me on this and I will gross you the fuck out with where my mind goes with eating eggs. 

So while I’m over here comfortably believing that the eggs I eat come from a parallel egg universe and never in a million years will hatch, there’s a concerned citizen in Britain who has set out to ruin the feeble charade I’ve based my breakfasts on. All it takes is a facebook video and an incubator and suddenly she’s doing her own reenactment of the 1996 classic, Fly Away Home.

Here’s what the supermarket chain had to say about it:

Waitrose said in a statement sent to CNN that it was only on "rare" occasions that an egg sold in its supermarkets would be fertilized.

And the farm:

"it is a feat of remarkably slim odds that a duckling has been hatched."

Bullshit. If one person can see a facebook video from a friend who’s not a rocket scientist, and recreate it on their first try then that’s not a one in a million chance- that’s just a chance. If someone asks you if it’s possible that your eggs will hatch, you have to say “there’s a chance.” I mean so far I haven’t heard about a single failure! They’re two for two!

For all of you out there silently scoffing at me because she used an ‘incubator’. That’s just one step removed, you cretin. That’s just 3 hours on the counter during a summer afternoon. That’s simply not enough separation between being a cute little bird and tasting good with bacon.

Just another Tuesday where I get my world rocked. And look, I know I have a problem, but that doesn’t change the fact that Mom’s going to be upset I smash all of our eggs with a hammer as soon as they come out of the grocery bag. Love me at my worst or you don’t deserve me at my best, Mom.