Let me introduce myself. My name is Egg. In France I am referred to as Oeuf, and in Spain, Huevo. Whatever you choose to call me, I am perfect in almost every way.

Remember the age old question: Which came first, the chicken or the egg? I say, who give's a big rat's butt. Without me you'd be stuck with cooked poultry. Try serving a chicken leg over-easy on top of a toasted English muffin. Can anyone say; no more Eggs Benedict?

While I may be a breakfast staple, I'm also a favorite salad on the lunch menu. I've stuffed more tomatoes than Hugh Heffner. I've adorned more cakes than Butter Creme or Fudge Royal. Betty Crocker devoted an entire chapter on how to beat my whites till they're stiff. Graham Kerr says it's all in the wrist, and he should know.

The best part about being an egg is getting laid. Thank goodness I don't have to lie in the ground for three months. Can you imagine having fertilizer dumped on your head every other day, then having to shove your way to the sun where you fend off insects and wild animals until Mr. Farmer rolls over you with a combine and chops you off at the knees? Bummer!

For me, I just slide out a really groovy womb onto a soft straw bed. My mother hen keeps me warm and safe by sitting on me. She even turns me everyday to keep my yolk from sticking to the side of my shell. Sometimes I have a tiny chicken inside me who eats up all the gooey stuff and pecks his way out when he gets to big for my shell. But most of the time, I just get gathered up and put in a carton with eleven of my closest friends.

I hate to brag, but I rank second in the list of quality protein foods, rivaled only by mother's milk. My container may be cute, but who can compete with a great set of hooters?

My yolk is one of the few foods that contain Vitamin D, and even in my larger size; I'm only 75 calories with 5 grams of fat. Eat your heart out tufo.

Many cultures worship me as a symbol of fertility. French brides break me on the threshold of their new home for luck and healthy babies. Here's a tip for those that drop me on the floor, sprinkle me liberally with salt for easy clean up.

But ... my favorite time of year is Easter. That's when I get to show my true colors. I'm washed, boiled and dropped in dye. Then, I'm laid out to dry. People go to great lengths to adorn my shell with stars and stripes and curly Q's. I take center stage in a wicker basket next to chocolate bunnies and bright yellow chicks, resting on a bed of jelly beans and green cellophane.

On Easter Morning, Mom and Dad carry me outside and lay me gently in the dewy, fresh mowed grass, or set me behind a bush, or even next to their mailbox. I wait patiently for their little child to find me. And when they find me, they squeal with delight and run to Mom and Dad, holding me high in the air.

Then, they drop me and their dog, Buster, eats me. Bummer!