The great thing about hard-boiled eggs is that you can eat them almost anywhere with very minimal mess. Granted, if you eat them in the office or a similarly confined space, your coworkers may assume you took a dump under your desk, but the smell aside, they are very convenient to eat for breakfast. That is, assuming they are actually hard-boiled and not the closer-to-raw egg that I broke into this morning at my cubicle. Nope, there was nothing hard about this egg and I certainly saw no evidence of it having been boiled, despite clearly remembering sticking them in boiling water at some point during the weekend. I do not doubt this actually happened, although it’s sometimes hard to tell because I have a tendency, especially of late, to dream about such mundane things as folding laundry, vacuuming, grocery shopping, getting my tires changed, and sticking a screwdriver in a zombie’s forehead after hiding out in the closet and watching my mother and father being brutally beaten and eaten alive. So dreaming about boiling eggs is not outside the realm of possibility. Neither is the prospect that I managed to screw that up. A process that literally consists of two ingredients, one cooking utensil, and heat, which cavemen were able to leverage, obviously better than I.
If I’ve ever wanted to say “I’ve got egg on my face” today definitely wasn’t that day. Too soon. Thankfully I wasn’t planning to actually work at all, because it took forever cleaning the runny, Salmonella-riddled mess off my shirt, skirt, desk, coffee cup, mouse, keyboard (paying special attention to the following letters: a, w, s, e, d, r, f, t, g, y, z, x, c, v, y, h, u, j, i, k, o, l, p, b, n, m, and ‘command’), new Pilot Bottle to Pen (B2P) Recycled Water Bottle Pen that I craftily stole from someone in accounting, a hard-copy marked draft report due to my boss last month, and a two-inch stack of 20-spots. As if. But after I did all that and resigned myself to smelling like total shit for the day, I began to question how it was that I found myself in this situation.
I’ve never really questioned why
I don’t know how to cook I didn’t care enough to learn how to cook. It was always just a given that obtaining this skill was less valuable to me than knowing how to play piano yet not owning a piano. And, up to this point, if I were to think back on a skill I wish I had developed earlier in life, cooking does not come to mind. (Swimming certainly does, especially after attempting to doggy-paddle in the ocean several times which, I now know, is not an environment that lends itself well to amateur paddlers.) But since I have given up candy (momentarily, on account of my Valentine’s Day overdose) I am left with little clue as to what I should eat and/or how to get what I want to eat in a posture where I can actually eat it.
To remedy this shortcoming I will do what any well-off and innovative girl would, and during drinks at my friend’s house tonight, I’ll shove one of her cookbooks in my purse when she goes to the bathroom. So wish me luck. With the cooking, that is. Stealing from a friend … that’s easier than boiling an egg.
*Title note: I was going to title this post ‘SchmEGGma’ but grossed myself out in the process and rethought that decision. Nevertheless, I thought it was too good to not at least give it a shout.