Last night when I caught Benny rummaging around in the fridge for plunder at 11 p.m., he held up a tupperware with some boiled eggs and confessed, "I'm poaching eggs."
Poached eggs. Suddenly I was reminded of my childhood. And with that reminder came a horrible realization. I had never made poached eggs for my family. Imagine that! But I have eaten many a poached egg in my younger days. They were prepared for me by my grandmother. And so I thought to myself, "I need to expose my children to the wonderful world of poached eggs." "I had to endure them, shouldn't they? Wouldn't they grow up all lop-sided without having tasted poached eggs?", I asked myself. Well we wouldn't want that, now would we?
So this morning I went surfing around to find a website that would show me how to poach an egg. Here's the best one I found, and you aughta read it. It's hilarious. If it has the same effect on you as it did on me, you'll probably be talked out of ever wanting to poach an egg!
3 comments:
Hahaha! This was a funny post. But seeing these disgusting, mutated eggs was funnier! Wow, we should try some of those and make an exhibit in Kokomo for "Live Active Yogurt Cultures!" ... or something like that....
This article is truly awsome, I wish I had the courage (and spare eggs) to experiment like that. But maybe I should master frying eggs first, or maybe I should just let Mom do all the cooking. I always feel surprisingly unhealthy after eating the runny cold yoke from the ones my sister cooks and there never seems to be anything left of mine.
As the ancient Homer once said: great epics either inspire us to our own Hurculean efforts, or quickly show us that we shall be oatmeal eaters the rest of our lives.
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