OB&C and the egg
The other day the OB&C awoke with an overwhelming urge to start his day with a bit of Conecuh sausage, a slice of toast and a perfectly fried egg. He announced this as I was catching up on the latest beheading in the faint hope that I might get up and actually cook it for him. Realizing that this was highly unlikely he shuffled over to the refrigerator in search of some sausage and an egg. I personally subscribe to the old adage not to keep all of your eggs in one basket. Therefore, I keep the uncooked poultry ova in a country-cute basket (which would be the envy of every woman who has a mountain house and loves gingham and bear motifs) and I give any hard boiled eggs free range (better late than never) and scatter them haphazardly around the fridge. Seems like a pretty straightforward arrangement, but the OB&C’s steel trap of a mind operates on an entirely different plane. Perhaps you remember a prior post regarding his tendency to “overthink.” In willful ignorance of my system of ovapartheid he opened the fridge door and peered intently at the contents, mulling over his strategy. He then eased into a crouch and cautiously clawed his way into its deepest recesses, threading his arm through a maze of outdated jams, jars of pickled okra, sardine cans, molding olives, pigs knuckles, a small packet of mouse feces (don’t ask), odd bits of cheese and several containers of earthworms, bypassing the basket of eggs that was smack in his face. Finally he pried out one lone egg and like the archaeologist who has succeeded in his ultimate quest to unearth the fabled tomb of King Salami Salami Boloney, triumphantly held it aloft as if it were some priceless artifact.
After all that exertion he decided he’d better calm down and read a few of the endless adolescent emails middle aged men send to one another. After perusing a few of these soporifics he was finally up to cooking a bit of sausage and popping a piece of bread into the toaster. Now, the piece de resistance, an egg fried to perfection! He gently picked up his egg that had required such an herculean effort to procure and with a flourish cracked it on the edge of the skillet. I had been monitoring his laborious pursuit of the egg closely, anticipating this moment when, like Wiley Coyote falling off the cliff, the OB&C would come down to earth with a thud. He turned the egg over in his hand and examined it carefully. Slowly he turned to me with a look of amazement mixed with despair and declared “This egg is hardboiled!”
“Yes it is.”