Egg on My Face, Etc.

 

It might be a funny story for future generation giggles.

It was not funny yesterday.

I decided to make hard boiled eggs.

I decided to try another way to make them.

• Step 1:

You bring them to a boil and

• Step 2:

Immediately remove them from the heat and allow to stand precisely 17 minutes.

Yup.  I did Step 1.  I am good at following directions.

And then I left.

I think I thought I had 17 minutes to write thank you notes.

The bad thing is I missed Step 2 – the 17 minute-part where you take the eggs off the stove and allow them to stand.

It must have been about 37 minutes later when I heard a funny noise.   Elsa-the-dog was pacing and trying to tell me something was amiss, but I ignored her and told her everything would be allright.

I was busy concentrating you know – writing lovely thank you notes.  It couldn’t be 17 minutes already.  Could it?

Then there came another noise.

Only this time it was a thunderous BANG!  Like a very loud GUNSHOT in the kitchen!

Was someone being murdered INSIDE my house?

It is still gun hunting season here.

Was there someone actually firing a gun in my house?

I ran/hobbled to the kitchen in time to see – YES – it was an explosion all right –

AN EXPLOSION OF EGGS!

Have you ever seen an egg explode?

It was a first for me too.

Oddly enough, I become very calm and deliberate in a crisis.  If you discount the way I talk to myself and even give myself vocal instructions, you would surely admire my bravery in quickly turning the burner off.  I also thought to put Elsa in the back room to keep her from eating exploded eggs.

Note: There were no more eggs in the pot.  I think most of them were on the ceiling and the pot was burned black.

There was definitely egg on the ceiling,

egg on the floor,

egg across the stove top,

egg under the vent hood,

eggs on the walls,

bits of egg into the next room,

egg EVERYWHERE!

Bill helped me clean up, especially in the upper reaches (like egg on top of the refrigerator).

I am still finding egg or egg shells in unusual places.

Finally my friend Amy came over and under her eagle eye and a tightrope walker’s balance, the last remnants of eggs on the ceiling are gone.

The only thing left is

“egg on my face.”

If you are not familiar with this expression, here is what it means.

From “The Dictionary of Cliches” by James Rogers (Ballatine Books, New York, 1985): “to have egg on your face – To be embarrassed or chagrined at something one has done or the way one did it; to do something ineptly. The expression originated in the United States some 25 years ago, probably from the fact that someone eating an egg sloppily is likely to wind up with some of it on his face and therefore not looking his best. 

 

 

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The Bonds of Love Between Machine and Man

 

Microwave Oven 1967
Photo from
http://www.smecc.org

I don’t do much microwaving.  Warming Tea.  Reviving Stale Coffee.  Unfreezing Vegetables.  Popping Corn.   The Usual.  I don’t cook from scratch in the microwave.  I don’t cook from scratch on the regular range much either.

I am not a great fan of cooking (from scratch or otherwise) although you may recall my friends think I am a gourmet chef.

I am the Great Chef Imposter.

Sometimes I do use the microwave though.

At least I don’t store my socks in there like one bachelor fellow I once knew.

He also stacked his shoes in the dishwasher.

But to continue – – our microwave oven was looking ill.  A worn spot developed inside with some unexplainable staining.  Uh oh!  “Possible extermination of human life,” I thought. “If I stand closer than 6 feet away I might get attacked by escaping nuclear atoms or something.”

“We need a new microwave!” I cried whenever Bill came into view.  Bill doesn’t come into view often although we have been married close to forever.  He has his desk.  I have my desk.  Maybe that’s the secret to long-term marital bliss.

Anyway I made a momentous decision and purchased a new microwave!   Same brand.  Different color.

The old one was black; the new one stainless steel.

At home, as if to say, “I hate this kitchen,” the new addition emitted a horrible plastic-y odor.  “Ikkkk!” said I.  But as Bill tried to tell me, within a few days the odor was more tolerable.  By then however, I developed a bad attitude.

I know it is irrational to dislike a mechanical object but I did.

Not only did the Miserable Micro smell bad, but every time we used it there were visible fingerprints all over the dratted thing! If I decided to murder my husband (or the microwave) the evidence against me would be there on the stainless steel in glaring detail.

Still, I pretended to love Le Mizerable Micro.

In reality I was stuck with a machine I hated and with no good reason to return it.

I think Le Miz knew we were not destined to a life of love, so one morning when I pushed its “On” button, it began to wail!

A truly horrific sound came from deep within its bowels (if a microwave has bowels) and it was a deafening siren-like moan that would send any normal person fleeing.   In a dubious act of love (fearing an imminent explosion) and being either stupid or extremely brave, I quickly pulled the plug.  I saved the machine – and the day – and we all survived.

But that scream was all I needed to return Le Miz to the DIY Store.

In its place is a new (black) Miracle Microwave that was $2.00 cheaper than the first and has no odor.  Miracle Micro is so perfect I have fallen in love. No moaning and no fingerprints either.  I think it loves me too as it seems to purr with satisfaction.

Odd but I now believe that horrendous moan was Le Miz’ way of expressing love too, by emitting a last agonizing scream to release us both from bondage.   I am so thankful and will never forget that enormous sacrifice.

No, uh, your blogger pal does not require medical attention but has only just recognized the hidden bonds of love that can develop between machines and man (or woman).

Do you have a machine you love?

Do you believe machines have feelings too?

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Gourmet Cook Cuts Up

Garden Salad – Wikipedia

Daily Prompt:  Those Dishes Won’t Do Themselves (Unfortunately)

What’s the household task you most dislike doing? 

Why do you think that is – is it the task itself, or something more?

I am an “I hate to cook-er.”  That means that in spite of being mysteriously regarded as a gourmet cook,  I definitely hate the whole roasting, toasting, broiling, baking experience.

Maybe I have been cooking too long.

But the task I hate the most about it all is making salads!

There are no shortcuts to making salads are there?   And we have one every night – every single night of our lives (except when we eat out of course).

What is it about making salads for decades that is so daunting?

It’s all the cutting up of the same old same old ingredients – you know – lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, onions, cucumbers, ad infinitum.

Sometimes I just slice cucumbers and tomatoes but Bill treats them like a salad anyway and has that look like he thinks something may be missing – namely, lettuce peppers, onions and the ad infinitum stuff.

Tonight I made a huge salad with everything in it so we can have it again tomorrow.  Hurrah!  Nothing to cut up!

But tomorrow I will have cooked for three days in a row.

On the third day the meals from our kitchen deteriorate into not-so-tasty-less-than-delicious-repasts. (Not on purpose, honest!)

But on the third day when burnt things appear along with less than perfect salads, Bill “gets it” – the cue.

It’s time to go out!

Saturday we will be dining with friends at a local restaurant where someone else will be doing the cutting up.

Maybe I will try a Honeymoon Salad next at home.

Have you ever heard of a Honeymoon Salad?

It’s “Lettuce (Let Us) Alone!”

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A Window on the World

Look Out!

Until my husband and I moved to this remarkable place, our kitchen had a view of the parking lot at our townhouse condo.  Parking lots are not boring really,  because you can watch people coming and going and read funny license plates.  My husband found a good one once.  It said, “LOOK OUT!”  – with dots in the O’s for eyes.  But back to the kitchen window, I vowed if we ever built a home, it would have a window with a real view.  And maybe I would put a sign on the wall above the sink, saying, “LOOK OUT!”

Horses on the Pasture

So, as they say, “It came to pass,” that one day we did build a home in the Virginia countryside and  have lived in it for 24 years!  Although I never put up the sign, the kitchen window does look out upon a pasture and a remarkable view of the mountains afar.

The pasture used to be populated by our two horses, Martini and Lucy Looselips.   At one time they took us on the trails, but eventually they (and we) retired and  became beautiful lawn ornaments (them, not us).   And  I could gaze out the kitchen window and see Lucy and Martini grazing peacefully and could bring them apples and carrots in exchange for soft snorting kisses.   Then we lost Martini at 28, and Lucy Looselips died when she was 32.  Imagine? That is supposed to be very old for a horse.   We called her Lucy Looselips because her lower lip hung down in a funny kind of way.

A Backstage Setting

The pasture is still lovely with trees and grasses that change color and density with the seasons, topped by a somewhat distant view of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  Sometimes the mountains are really the color blue.  I wonder if that’s how they got their name.  Someone marveled at a dusky view and said, “Look at those blue ridged mountains!”  And it caught on.  But sometimes they are grey-green, and others charcoal and maybe topped with snow or fog or rain clouds.   Lightning storms in those far off hills are fascinating and we often sit on the deck for a light show.  And the sunrises are phenomenal and the moonrises too. It’s a never ending panorama as if it were a backstage setting in preparation for a new performance every day, every hour, every season.

Country Living Through the Looking Glass

The kitchen window brings back memories of a baby fox playing in broad daylight as if pouncing on a ball, or the herd of cattle who once wandered over for greener pastures, a horse who once galloped into our swimming pool,  the bear having a picnic under the peach tree, and our grandgirls’ hooting and hollering at play.

And looking through the panes of glass from the inside out, I see, once again,  pictures of a chosen country life, and mirror-like reflections of who I once was, who I am, and what I most enjoy in life.  And, the wonder of it all is I can still work at the sink and “look out” my window on the world.

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