Eggs for a nuclear village?

The strangest thing I've seen so far in Svalbard isn't the polar bear crossing the road in front of the school, ignoring the pedestrian a hundred meters away walking toward him.

It isn't the whale stir-fry at Mary-Ann's Polarrigg (hint: bypass the tourist instinct; the traditional Thai dishes are far superior).

It's the carton of eggs I bought at the supermarket.

Twelve eggs, 22 yolks.

I should have known something was up when the eggs themselves were genetic monstrosities, closer to goose-size than chicken-size. I cracked the first one and no big deal – I've seen double yolks on rare occasions before.

But when I cracked another and the same thing happened, I sort of freaked out.

There's a scene in Jack London's "A Thousand Dozen" (part of this collection of short stories) where the main character, having gone through the nine circles of Hell to get a bunch of eggs to the Canadian Arctic during the gold rush, goes into an insane egg-breaking furry after a customer complains the eggs are rotten. My derangement was considerably shorter and less messy, but probably not far off in spectator entertainment value. I cracked all of them open in a bowl and, aside from one "normal" specimen, all contained double shots.

I couldn't bring myself to eat them, as if I could absorb that much cholesterol. For some reason the word "radiation" wouldn't leave my mind. Not that I've been much affected by tales of Chernobyl and the fallout over Scandinavia during Russia's nuke tests during the Cold War.

But, like the person unable to stop staring at a car accident, I went back to the store the next day for a couple more cartons. Nothing. And nothing like it since. Which makes me wonder if anybody else encountered that particular henhouse. And if they now have a third ear – or maybe just an extra-vibrant "mood" – to show for it.