Egg-stra-sized

That time I went to Toronto for a weekend visit with my friends, the drive back didn’t go as expected. Whenever I am in Canada, I stock up on Canadian honey and snacks at Costco. I’m not the only American doing that. There are no Costco stores around Buffalo, so when I shop at the Niagara Falls Costco, I see many cars with the US plates.

It all started out fine. I got everything on my list and strolled into the Dairy Section, to check out eggs. Surprised by no shortage or limit on the number of cartons per person, I decided to buy one for myself. Priced at $10.79 Canadian (~$7.50 US) for 30 eggs, i.e. $3 US/dozen, it was a steal. In March 2025, American egg prices were obscenely high.

Taking the Peace Bridge to the American border checkpoint, I hoped it would be a breeze. There were not too many cars, the line seemed to move quickly, and I was coming home, after all.

In about 15 minutes, I produced my face and passport to a US Customs Officer. After several standard questions about how long and why I was in Canada, he asked me if I did any grocery shopping.

“Yes, I stopped at Costco,” I replied honestly.

His eyes sparked.

Recognition? Does he also go shopping there when off duty? I would never know.

“What did you buy there?”

“Some snacks, fruit and eggs.” I smiled, hoping he'd get my telepathic joke about smuggling Canadian eggs.

The officer's eye spark died.

“Eggs?” he repeated sternly, typing furiously on his keyboard. “How many?”

“Just one carton.” My smile fainted away as he put my passport into a special pouch.

“You'll have to go through an inspection,” he said, “the computer's picked you randomly. Turn right here and that policeman will show you where to park. You'll get your passport there after the inspection.”

“Sure, officer,” I mumbled. The feeling of doom washed over me.

Bye, my Canadian eggs! And of course it's purely random.

“Lane 17, spot inspection needed,” he said into his breast pocket radio, showing me to drive off.

I turned right and saw a police officer waving at me. I parked where he showed and came out of the car. A customs officer emerged from the building, verified my name, and asked what I bought in Canada. I said again, “fruit, snacks, and eggs.”

“Please open your car and go to Door #2,” the officer said. “You'll get your passport there.”

Inside, I sat in the waiting area with other people. Many of them were brown skinned, probably from India and Pakistan. Some Chinese and Vietnamese names were called out while I was waiting, texting my Toronto friend. She was horrified I'd been picked for the inspection.

Random selection my ass – I was the only white woman in the waiting area.

Finally, in about 20 minutes, the familiar customs officer came in and called my name.

As I approached, he asked, “Would you like to deliver your eggs to your friends in Toronto?”

???

“Otherwise, we'll have to confiscate and dispose of them,” he explained, seeing my confusion.

“It's a two-hour drive one way, and I have to be home in Pennsylvania by 5 pm. So, no, sir.”

He lectured me about eggs, other bird-related and animal food products (honey??? no, not my Canadian honey!!!), and tropical fruits banned from entering the US because of some pathogens. I just nod and smile, what else can I do?

But wait a second, I CAN do something.

“I wouldn’t want to waste them, officer,” I said. “Is there a place I can go, to sit alone and eat them?”

Confused, he said, “But we have no way to cook them.”

“No need to cook them, I just need a private space, away from all the people waiting. Also, if I could borrow a needle or something sharp…”

Puzzled, the officer led me into a small office with a table and two chairs. Minutes later he was back, with my eggs and a needle. He sat at the table across from me, curious and ready to watch.

I pricked the first egg with a needle and sucked it raw, like my grandma taught me when I was young. The officer’s jaw dropped.

“Aren’t you afraid of salmonella?” he asked in disbelief.

“If I get it, so be it.” I sucked in another egg, shaking the third one in my left hand to break the yolk inside for easier consumption. He just sat there, shocked by my method.

On Egg 11, I felt my muscles growing, ripping off my clothes. On Egg 19, I felt sick after I realized I was growing into a She-Hulk, shedding clothing. Miraculously, my underwear stretched enough to keep me covered. I happily sensed I was also getting younger and stronger.

Must be all that protein.

On Egg 23, I realized that if I stayed in the room, I wouldn’t fit through the door frame. I grabbed the remaining eggs and rushed outside, ignoring the officer, nailed in shock to his seat. Still growing while leaving the building, I broke the door and went to my car. Too big to fit in, I plopped myself on the ground and gobbled the remaining eggs, ignoring the commotion of officers running and shouting around me.

I'm the new Gulliver.

I laughed at the thought. Spotting the officer who had my passport, I bent to his eye level to say, “I’m done, sir. May I go now?”

He nodded slowly, unsure.

“I need my passport, please.”

He stretched his arm out, hooking the pouch with my passport and car keys on my pinky nail. I grabbed my toy car and walked away, carrying it under my arm.

I reached Buffalo in 1127 steps. That's when I started to shrink. Near Dunkirk, I squeezed myself into the car. I was back to my normal size when I got home.

Alas, the She-Hulk didn’t last.