Waiter, There's a Screw in My Frittata

I made a frittata for dinner last night. This is perhaps not the most hearty of meals to serve a man who has been roofing for ten hours in the hot sun, but, well, the ground beef I excavated from the chest freezer ended up being used to make hamburgers for the laborers' lunch, and I just didn't have the necessary fortitude to go freezer diving again to take out yet another hunk of meat to thaw for dinner. So! Eggs it is! In the form of a frittata, because then I could use up some of the lovely Ronde de Nice zucchinis that are producing several cute little baseball-sized zucchinis every few days that will totally take over the crisper drawers if they are not used every few days.

ANYWAY. Where was I?

Oh. Yes. Frittata. So there I was, sitting there eating my frittata, when I noticed some black in my piece. "Huh," I thought to myself. "I didn't think I had burned this." So I poked at the black spots some more and unearthed . . . a screw.

Yes. An honest-to-god screw of the sort you would use to hold together a bed frame or something. And I still, today, have absolutely NO IDEA how that screw got there. Was it hiding in the zucchini? The potatoes? Did a chicken have an iron deficiency and go foraging for hardware that then ended up in one of my eggs?

I do not know. But I will in future attempt to serve meals that are less dangerous to one's dental health.

A modest goal, I know, but a worthy one.