Yesterday my Farm-Fresh Express delivery arrived with lovely organic eggs from an Amish farmer. Salivating over the thought of curry deviled eggs, I brought the eggs to room temperature, gently placing them in the pot with cold water and heating them slowly, so as not to crack. Off to my office where I began busily prepping for my Dark Tourism course, reading my Visual Studies senior thesis' bibliographies, outlining my Gary Hill book review and clearing email.
Why is it that pre-tween boys have no sense of smell? They certainly can't smell their own stinky shoes and feet, nor can they smell their odiferous sweat-covered bodies. With this in mind, it should come as no surprise that my son did not notice the burning smell and intense smoke coming from the kitchen.
I rushed upstairs, grabbed the pot and immediately put it in the sink with running water. Two of the eggs violently exploded, barely missing my eye. Dictionary.com defines a blast as A violent release of confined energy, usually accompanied by a loud sound and shock waves.
This accurately describes the egg fiasco. I am still suffering from the shock waves.
How is it possible to have egg in every single crevice of the kitchen? Ceiling, window molding, floor, in cabinets, in drawers, on the dog and cat. Tiny egg-shrapnel. It smells worse than burnt sulfur.
On a positive note....I am no longer hungry, which is good for the waistline. No one else is hungry, so I don't have to cook. I envision great potential for performance art work featuring culinary explosions. Does anyone want to volunteer their kitchen?
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