Originally published by he Clifton Courier, March 18, 2020

The other day I could have potentially poisoned a whole bunch of people.

I was making a batch of gingerbread bickies for an afternoon tea, which was being held in honour of a sunbeam in human form. She’s the kind of lady who appreciates and encourages baking, so I of course didn’t want to rock up with a packet of Tim Tams I’d bought for half price from the impulse buy bin right by the registers at the supermarket. I wanted to put in a bit of effort. And, ever since my gingerbread underperformed at the Clifton Show, I’ve been dying for external validation for my bickies.

So I decided to whip up a batch.

Everything was going according to plan. I’d sifted the dry ingredients. I’d melted the butter. I’d made sure to add a little extra love to the mix (in this case, “love” was “ground ginger”). And then came time for the egg.

I’d recently visited Mum and Dad, who, despite being empty nesters, often have full nesting boxes thanks to the chookies up the back.

And as much as I go home to soak up their company, I also don’t say no to a free carton of farm-that’s-not-actually-a-farm-fresh eggs. They’re just better than the ones I get at the supermarket. They’re more wholesome. The yolks are always yellower. And they’re often way bigger.

That was the case with the batch I’d recently brought back with me to the big smoke. One was so big that, when I stacked something on top of the carton in the fridge, it cracked – because it was too large to be protected by the standard-sized carton.

Not wanting to waste one of these golden eggs, I tipped the goo into a small container, sealed it and kept it in the fridge.

So, naturally, that was the egg I chose to add to my gingerbread mix.

But it wasn’t until I was well into mixing it all together that I realised: my trip back home wasn’t the weekend just gone; it was the weekend before that.

That means that egg hadn’t been in the fridge unshelled for just a few days, but for a good week.

I’d never been one to forgo a taste of raw mixture for fear of uncooked-egg-related illness, but given how long this egg was in the nude for, I did pause before licking the bowl. I mean, I ate the raw scrapings anyway, but still.

While I was waiting for the potentially tainted bickies to bake, I did some research. And the general consensus from the first page of Google results was that you should only keep a cracked egg for two days. After that, you should bin it.

This did nothing to relax me. I messaged the group, explained situation, and asked whether or not I should bring the bickies. The only responses I got back were in favour of my bringing the potentially dodgy baked goods.

By the time the afternoon tea came around, it had been a few hours since I tasted the raw mixture. And I felt ok, so I tentatively opened the container of bickies for the taking, adding a disclaimer which went something along the lines of “Waring, risky biscuits”.

Unsurprisingly, there were very few participants willing to literally risk it for the biscuit and I ended up taking home nearly as many bickies as I’d brought.

Now, in case you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to have a super fun combination of anxiety, the tendency to catastrophise and an overactive sense of imagination, let me paint a picture for you.

On the way home, I began to worry that I’d poisoned a few folk. Maybe they’d have a slightly runnier stool next bowel movement, but maybe they’d have their entire lives thrown off course because of my foolish egg choices.

Then I began to fret, hard. My stomach churned. I felt my pulse quicken. My checks felt flushed. Was this egg-related illness catching up with me? Or was this a panic attack? Or was it both?

I knew, thanks to nervous Googling, that symptoms wouldn’t show up until about 12 hours after ingestion. And it as I looked at the time, I realised it was nearing 12 hours since I ate the raw dough.

I began to worry about the other people who ate my bickies. Were they ok? Were they writhing around on the floor? Would they die? Would I be held responsible? Was I going to prison?!

I then cursed myself for not just getting a packet of Tim Tams. Everyone loves Tim Tams for heaven’s sake.

But the hours I’ve spent in a psychologists’ office kicked in. I forced myself to let out some long, slow exhales. I decided to go to sleep and, if I woke up feeling violently unwell, I’d cross that bridge when I threw up on it. If I woke up feeling fine, everything was fine.

And, thank heavens, it was.

* Note, I actually wrote this column a week ago**, but decided to leave it a week later just to make absolutely sure no one had been struck down.

** That note above was something I added to the printed version. This note is in direct reference to the delayed digital version. It’s been about a month and all seems to be well. I mean that, of course, strictly in terms of people not getting gastro. Because we all know that if I were to say “all seems to be well” I’d be a fucking liar.