I can’t believe it’s 2023 and the peasant masses are still too poor, uneducated and slovenly to make this distinction, but here we are. I am an egg bake, and you miserable people need to stop mistaking me for a fucking omelet.
We are not the same. We are both made with a combination of eggs, perhaps a splash of milk, a variety of vegetables, sometimes a sprinkle of ham, and if you’re disgusting, more bacon than eggs. But that’s where the similarities end.
Egg bakes were invented in ancient Greece in 712 B.C. when philosopher Thales of Miletus famously wrote, “The way of living virtuously is by never doing ourselves what we bake in others.” This was actually a typo. “Bake” was supposed to be “blame,” but his scribe was an idiot writing in stone, so the typo lasted for 2,000 years. Thus, a local chef saw the tablet on his way to his restaurant, where he cooked for gladiators who were about to fight each other to the death.
“What if we bake eggs?” He thought. An astute observation, I know. Hence, the egg bake was born and lived happily ever after until the fucking omelet came and ruined everything.
The omelet was invented in Reno, Nevada in 1974. Donna Fields and her loud husband Keith were spending their dream vacation at the Peppermill Resort Spa Casino, yelling at each other by day and gambling away each others’ 401k’s at night. On the third day, they went to the diner across the street for breakfast. Hungover and utterly sick of each other, Keith asked waiter if he could have eggs and bacon.
“Would it kill you to eat a vegetable?” Donna scoffed, rightfully so if you ask me.
So, to make a point in the most annoying fashion, Keith asked the waiter to cook his bacon in his eggs. Then, he requested the chef add peppers diced so small they’re practically juice, and sprinkle the entire monstrosity with four pieces of red onion they’d make you choke.
Hence, the omelet was born and my misery began. Except, I made all that up. I think “omelet” is French for “inferior garbage that no one should ever be forced to consume.” Or maybe it means eggs. I’m an egg bake, not a linguist. Oh, and by the way? Spelling it “omelette” like the British doesn’t make it any better, it just makes the misery slightly longer.
Egg bakes carry themselves with modesty and class. I refuse to cook on the stove for everyone to see. I have never finished in two minutes. I am “lightly garnished” with a sprig of basil or a hint of chives. Not hacked into tiny pieces, slathered in ketchup, and smeared all over the face of your disgusting child. You can order me at a Parisian café or a French bistro in New York. I do not grace any diners in Kansas with my presence. If you aren’t writing the next great American novel when you eat me, I will spit in your drink.
The omelet is a shapeless blob with no personality. It’s an atrocity plus ham. I am delicately eaten with a very small fork on the Upper East Side next to an even smaller Pomeranian in a stroller wearing Chanel. We are not the same.
If you even think about calling me a casserole, I will light your oven on fire.
Bobbie Armstrong is a former child, current writer and student. Her work has appeared on McSweeney’s, Slackjaw, Belladonna Comedy, Little Old Lady, and her parents’ fridge. Follow her existential crisis @bobbien_