The Egg of It All

It is a well-known fact that my husband loves eggs. He consumes them in all their forms: fried, scrambled, poached and boiled. He likes them runny, with cheese and a bit of onion, on top in huevos or underneath hollandaise sauce. He even favors egg-shaped objects — his first car was a VW Bug (as close to an ovaloid as you could get outside of Ork in those days).

Unbelievably, we once considered buying an egg-laying operation in a futile attempt to make a living in an unaffordable part of the country. I remember a tour of the owner’s farmhouse revealed the largest egg-clectic collection of chicken and egg nicknacks known to man. Even the clocks on the wall bore the shapes of poultry.

It was truly egg-centric. (sorry)

So, stands to reason that any holiday even remotely celebrating the spherical will have his full participation. As empty-nesters, the whole point and motivation to pastel candy, gaudy long-handled baskets and egg dying would be done and gone if it weren’t for my spouse’s ellipsoidal zeal.

Pretty soon, those addictive miniature eggs with the crunchy malt centers suddenly appear in the candy dish despite my best attempts to avoid and prevent this sort of behavior. Then chocolate-covered coconut ovules spill out from behind the cereal boxes in the cupboard. Inevitably, I find telltale strands of fake grass clinging to his clothes.

Although this year, I honestly thought we were going to amble through the holiday weekend without the whole hard-boiled routine, tempting sales on 12-packs notwithstanding.

By Maundy Thursday, however, he had that look in his eye, the dear man. He wanted me to pick up extra on grocery day. Okay, boil some up, I offered, thinking no big deal, we’ll have deviled eggs all next week.

But no. He wanted them à la shell. In color.

Too late, I mused. There’s no way unless we masticate some roots or fight a squirrel for the black walnut shells. Do they even sell those egg-dying kits of our youth in the stores anymore? You know, the ones with the transfers that never worked and the punch-out paper figures my brother and I used to come to blows over?

Not to be dissuaded, my husband fishes out an ancient box of food coloring, the kind with those little suspiciously-familiar-shaped bottles wearing pointy hats.

A half cup of hot water and a whiff of vinegar later, I am 10 again.

Re-hatched.

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