This is how the Scotch Egg became my spirit animal.
First Chuck mentioned this food, which sounded like one of the more delicious way to regret the fragility of a ventricle.
Then a few days later my friend posted a photograph on Facebook of the Scotch Eggs he was about stuff into his Sharpie hole, and this bit of Space Shuttle poetry:
I heard that loud and clear: My Spirit Animal was on the menu like 2 miles from our house.
I made a special date with myself to eat Scotch Eggs at this diner that is less of a diner-diner and more of a place where they might add beets and fennel to the hash browns. True story, although I opted for the regular hash browns. Too much clever in one day makes me wonky.
And on a Saturday morning I was presented with this:
Two hard-boiled eggs wrapped in a silt of meat flecks and bread crumbs. Deep fried. With the aforementioned side of hollandaise. Hell, yes, it was good.