All men are created equal. All eggs are not.
I learned the difference just in time to avoid a dose of pre-holiday pain.
I grew up in cities. Big ones like New Orleans and smaller spots like Alexandria, Louisiana and Montgomery, Alabama. I only hung out with hens and roosters when we visited my grandmother in Ft. Gaines, Georgia. A time or two I gave them some scratch feed. We were tight.
One of the fattest birds usually disappeared an hour or two before Sunday dinner, but nobody shed a tear. We were too busy eating pan-fried chicken. The young pullets kept the eggs coming. We swallowed their offerings every morning. A Southern breakfast without eggs was - and is - an act of culinary blasphemy.
Despite my cardiologist’s concerns, I still eat eggs with a clear conscience. If I see one in the house, I figure it’s fair game.
My wife is a great cook. Angela loves to bake and our blissful home is often filled with the heavenly fragrance of oven-fresh delights.
Baking requires patience, skill, the right equipment, and usually - eggs. Angela always keeps some on hand.
She recently toted home a few more than usual. I was delighted. I was also too stupid to realize what she was up to.
I ate a few. OK, several. A lot. About a week later Angela announced she was ready to start the holiday baking. She rattled off a list of treats she planned to crank out.
As soon as I got my heart restarted I suggested she might want to get a few more eggs before she preheated the oven.
“How many do I have left?” she asked.
“One,” I said.
She was unhappy. I was terrified.
We had a pleasant discussion and agreed that since our insurance deductibles had just gone up it was a good thing I had mentioned the egg situation before she got started on a pound cake and came up half a dozen short.
I promised to get more immediately. She sweetly suggested I buy “his” and “her” eggs so she'd never have to worry if “hers” were gone.
To make sure I got the message, she said I should consider her eggs “sacred.”
Message received. Off to the store I went for two cartons of eggs. Mine are in a yellow container. Her egg crate is pink, her favorite color.
Into the fridge they went. I’ve eaten a few secular eggs but haven’t touched the sacred eggs, and won’t. I thought about mixing some of my normal eggs with the sacred ones to see if she could tell the difference, but chickened out.
I finally decided to remove all temptation and create a special space in the refrigerator where the sanctified eggs would rest until they were beaten to death.
Back when Moses was in charge, God told the Hebrews to keep the Ark of the Covenant in a sacred space called the Holy of Holies. The space was walled off by a special curtain. Sounded good to me.
We were fresh out of holy curtain fabric but had tons of tea towels suitable for protecting poultry products. Angela’s eggs are now hidden under one embroidered with “Life Needs More Sunshine and Sweet Tea.”
After securing the eggs I felt calm enough to start a new project—my first screenplay. Steven Spielberg’s address was easy to find. I can’t wait to hear what he thinks of “Indiana Alex and the Sacred Eggs.”
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