THE EGG LADY
FROM APRIL/MAY 2021 ISSUE OF WEST END PHOENIX
THE EGG LADY
251 AUGUSTA AVE.
“FROM MY APARTMENT ABOVE THE EGG SHOP, I LEARNED TO LOVE – SCHOOL, FREEDOM, THE SOUNDS OF THE CITY AT NIGHT”
Her name was Cipora Offman, but many knew her as Mary and most knew her simply as The Egg Lady. At least, that’s how I always knew her. Hers is the only egg store I have ever known. The store, on Augusta Avenue in the heart of Kensington Market, sold eggs. That’s it. Sure, there were all kinds of eggs sold there, from enormous ostrich eggs to the tiniest mottled brown quail eggs, but if you came in looking for anything but eggs, well, there was another store in the Market for you.
There’s a photo my parents have of me as a toddler standing on the table where she would wrap the trays of eggs in newspaper. Mary is smiling broadly at me. My parents, like many at the time (the ’70s and ’80s), would come to the Market every week because it was the best place in the city to stretch your food dollar while still getting the best of everything. The eggs were no different, my mother buying a tray of large brown ones each time, another tray placed on top before they were wrapped tight for transport. They were delicious no matter the method of preparation.
That each store seemed similarly single-minded has always been one of the true pleasures of the Market. You immerse yourself in a specific food each time, with options overflowing. A complete meal would mean multiple stops, but barely more distance travelled than most would at Costco or the Superstore. Each store had its own personality, its own experience, its keeper, their own very distinct character.
When it was time for me to go to university, I chose U of T, but did not want to stay at home with my parents in East York. I looked at a bunch of places I could afford and was beginning to question whether my independence was really worth it, when the egg lady came to the rescue. She told my mom that she had an apartment for rent in the neighbourhood. When I went to see her, it turns out she had more than one apartment and the one she wanted to show me was next door to the egg store, above a shop that she owned but only used for egg storage. Because of how long she had known us, she made me a deal, and I had my first place on my own, a tiny bachelor with a solarium. I thought it was the coolest.
As a U of T student, Jesse Wente lived beside the egg shop run by Cipora “Mary” Offman.
From that small apartment in the heart of Kensington, I learned to love. Love school, love freedom, love the sounds of the city at night, the smells, the cadre of artists, activists, addicts and anarchists that stayed when the shops closed because they lived there. And I learned to love Julie, who is my wife now, after she came over to visit that small apartment one lonely Valentine’s Day.
It was in that apartment, one night, when we heard glass break below. The egg lady didn’t use a steel gate to block her shopfront, and on this night thieves had decided to find out if there was more than just eggs in the store. Stupidly, without shoes on, I went to investigate, seeing the broken glass of the door spread across the pavement, a young guy standing, looking inside. I told him to get lost or I’d call the cops. When I turned to get my shoes from Julie at the top of the stairs another guy came out of the store and ran away. I called the egg lady, told her what happened and she called the police. The next day, she told me that all they got was loose change. She hugged me. I never paid for eggs again.
On my own, in the Market, I learned about community and how we build it even when we’ve come from places near and far. How we care for each other, look out for each other and nourish each other. Turns out The King of Kensington had it right about this place.
Julie and I took the kids to the Market a couple of years ago. The apartment was still there, but they couldn’t square the idea that their parents had ever lived there or that there had ever been a store with only eggs. We got them some churros and started walking down Augusta. My daughter paused at the corner and asked me, “Do you smell that?” I inhaled deeply and smiled. “I sure do.”