On Christmas morning, my grandma likes us to go to her house for breakfast. She makes the Li'l Smokies and we make our own eggs. I'm sure Grandma does more, but I only remember the Li'l Smokies--mainly because I make it a point the rest of the year to never eat anything with the words "Li'l" or "Smokies" in it. That taste stays with you for weeks.
But anyway, there I was making Husband and a kid or two some eggs. Scrambled. With a little bit of milk and garlic salt. Enter someone who shall go nameless that said,
"You're putting milk in your eggs?"
"Um, yes."
I don't know what exact words followed but the general idea was that putting milk in scrambled eggs is pretty much the nightmare of cooking faux pas. I do remember someone else saying, "Sure glad I don't have to eat those eggs."
I won't even get into specifics about the garlic salt. And what were they doing in that 1950's kitchen anyway? It's only twice the size of a typical communist kitchen which means two people in it are going to experience all kinds of personal space issues. But back to the eggs.
I refused from then on to ever make eggs at my grandma's house. More Li'l Smokies for my kids I guess. Oh, and blueberry muffins--I remember now there are blueberry muffins. But my kids and Husband have since gone eggless because I just can't take that kind of stress on Christmas morning in an itty bitty kitchen. Actually, I think Husband might have made them a couple times.
Fast forward ten years to Monkey's little preschool paper. It says, and I quote:
What is the best thing your mommy cooks for you?
Answer: "Eggs. My mom makes the best eggs. I love her eggs. She cracks them in a bowl, but not with any of the egg shell. Then she cooks them in a pan just right! I think my mom is a good egg cooker!"
I cried.
So this year, Monkey may just get eggs made by me. And I will take this little paper in my pocket Christmas morning and show it to anyone who gives me grief.
I am just that petty.
But anyway, there I was making Husband and a kid or two some eggs. Scrambled. With a little bit of milk and garlic salt. Enter someone who shall go nameless that said,
"You're putting milk in your eggs?"
"Um, yes."
I don't know what exact words followed but the general idea was that putting milk in scrambled eggs is pretty much the nightmare of cooking faux pas. I do remember someone else saying, "Sure glad I don't have to eat those eggs."
I won't even get into specifics about the garlic salt. And what were they doing in that 1950's kitchen anyway? It's only twice the size of a typical communist kitchen which means two people in it are going to experience all kinds of personal space issues. But back to the eggs.
I refused from then on to ever make eggs at my grandma's house. More Li'l Smokies for my kids I guess. Oh, and blueberry muffins--I remember now there are blueberry muffins. But my kids and Husband have since gone eggless because I just can't take that kind of stress on Christmas morning in an itty bitty kitchen. Actually, I think Husband might have made them a couple times.
Fast forward ten years to Monkey's little preschool paper. It says, and I quote:
What is the best thing your mommy cooks for you?
Answer: "Eggs. My mom makes the best eggs. I love her eggs. She cracks them in a bowl, but not with any of the egg shell. Then she cooks them in a pan just right! I think my mom is a good egg cooker!"
I cried.
So this year, Monkey may just get eggs made by me. And I will take this little paper in my pocket Christmas morning and show it to anyone who gives me grief.
I am just that petty.
Comments
Stay gold Ginger!! You are aweome! I am still smiling about the "communist kitchen!!"