Egg Trauma Drama

I love to cook. Usually cooking means making a huge production out of whatever I am making. I usually come up with good results. And a very very messy kitchen. Needless to say, I don't cook very often. I am slowly learning to simplify. I am finding though, that simple isn't always simple. Some things just aren't rocket science; if they were, I might actually get it.

Given the impending Easter holiday, G's school requested that we send three hardboiled eggs to school so the kids could color them as an art project. So, yesterday, I called M on his way home from work and requested that he pick up eggs at the store. I had eggs in the refrigerator, but they were brown and wouldn't take Easter egg coloring as well as white eggs. This is a huge favor to ask of him. He hates eggs. Hates them. Won't eat them unless they are in baked goods, and despises the smell of eggs cooking. He told me he knew it was true love when we was willing to wash the pan after I made myself scrambled eggs one particular evening. G doesn't have this aversion. G once ate six scrambled eggs all by himself. I suspect it was one of those "empty leg" days. Anyhow, it's a running joke in my house about my husband's past egg trauma. He says he has no idea where it comes from, just that he dislikes them. I suspect that there's some Freudian explanation for this aversion, having to do with items that once came out of a chicken's posterior. He thinks I am silly, but then I like to bunk Occam's Razor on a regular basis.

He brought me home a 1/2 dozen carton of grade A large white eggs. Perfect. It was then I realized, I don't know how to make a hard boiled egg. Chicken curry, yes. Spaghetti, yes. Lasagna, yes. Hard boiled egg? No. Never done it. Never had reason to.

I stood in the kitchen and verbalized: "I don't know how to hard boil an egg."
M, from the other room: "Honey, you are asking the wrong person."
Me: "I wasn't asking, I was stating."

This is one of those times when not having my mother to call, sucks. And, wasn't sure I wanted to call a friend and admit I was so inept in the kitchen that I didn't know how to hardboil an egg. Luckily I am a resourceful gal. I got out the cookbook and hoped that it contained something that mundane.

M, from the other room: "You should get out the cookbook."
Me: "I'm already there."

Yes, as it turns out, we do have a cookbook that can talk you through toast. YAY! I read the process. Pan, eggs, water... bring to boil. Simmer for 15 minutes. Okay, I can do this. Simple. I place all six eggs in a pan with water and turn on the burner. I head to the living room to relax.

A few minutes later, M walks into the kitchen. "Uh, honey, did you set a timer?"
Me: "No, are they boiling?"
M: "Yes."
Me: "Then set it to simmer."

Apparently I forgot to add "for fifteen minutes." M returns to the living room and we start reviewing our taxes. Fifty minutes later I re-enter the kitchen. Eggs still simmering.

Me: "Crap!"
M: "What?"
Me: "The eggs are still simmering."
M: "It's been fifty minutes."
Me: "I know."
M: "Was that all of them?"
Me:" Yep." We looked at each other a long moment. "Do you think they will eat them or just color them?"
M looks at me skeptically. This is a conversation he doesn't want to be having. "I don't know."
Me: "Crap!"

I decided to send the eggs just in case. So, M hauled in five (minus 1 which cracked) extremely overcooked eggs. The teacher was skeptical too, so the eggs didn't stay. She did sympathize and say she'd once cooked them to the point of explosion. I hope G didn't overhear that. He might actually think it cool to explode eggs in my kitchen. That's more our family speed. Cook 'em, naw, hell, we blow 'em apart. Science is awesome. (And I know who wouldn't be cleaning that kind of mess up, true love or not.)

Thankfully there were other forward-thinking parents who sent more than their expected share of properly-cooked hardboiled eggs. For those of us who apparently don't or... can't.

Whew. Crisis averted. At least I now know, in theory, how to hardboil an egg. Perhaps I can put that knowledge to good use... next year.