My life is filled with good eggs. Kind, thoughtful family and friends. I have no use for bad eggs.
I did a little noodling around, trying to sniff out the origins of the term, good egg. It was used by Brit wiseacre P.G. Wodehouse in the 1920s. Maybe a prep school twist on the bad seed? Nothing definitive.
Yesterday, I went to the U-District Farmers Market and talked to the goat farmer who sold me the eggs with the fragile yolks. I told her a few of the dozen shattered when they hit the pan and asked if she had any idea why this happened. She wasn't sure, but she was sorry to hear about the bad yolks.
But she insisted I take another dozen, no charge. Well, thank you. She sure was a good egg.