Christina M. Currie: An eggcentric obsession |

Christina M. Currie: An eggcentric obsession

My girls are enthralled with eggs. Completely enchanted.

They don’t like them scrambled. They don’t like them fried or poached or hard-boiled.

They like them raw.

That’s because they’ve got no interest in eating eggs, just having them.

I can’t explain it.

I even bought a 100-piece plastic food set because it contained four eggs — two fried and two whole. I just knew the whole ones would be a big hit.

They weren’t. They haven’t even come out of the bag.

But, when my neighbor brought over a dozen newly laid eggs, you’d have thought it was Christmas.

These country eggs ranged from gumball size to about two sizes smaller than the eggs you’d find in a grocery store. They were light brown and mottled. That was the beginning of the girls’ infatuation.

Ever cognizant of the potential for disaster, I tapped holes in the top and bottom of two eggs and blew the contents down the drain.

That certainly mitigated the harm when 5-year-old Katie first got the idea to throw hers at her little sister.

Miraculously, the fragile shells remained intact through the day, which meant the girls wanted to sleep with them that night.

I warned them both that it wasn’t likely the eggs would last through the night, but unlike their mother, they aren’t really mindful of potential consequences.

One made it and one did not.

So I had to endure — again — the blood-vessel-popping process of blowing two ounces of thick egg white and even thicker yolk through a pin-sized hole.

I really didn’t follow the progress of those two eggs, though I did find traces of shells in beds and under them.

I refused (well, my lungs did anyway) all requests for replacements. But, I wasn’t surprised when cousin Isiac came hopping out of the girls’ bedroom with one egg-covered foot angled behind him yelling “I didn’t do it,” as yolk dripped onto the carpet.

Evidently the girls had smuggled unaltered eggs from the refrigerator and promptly forgot about them.

I finally hid the remaining six eggs when Nikki woke up, literally, with egg on her face.

Her tears weren’t for the mess, they were for the poor egg and the fact that she wouldn’t get a replacement.

I’m not sure why stuffed animals were replaced by raw eggs as sleeping companions, but they’re evidently worth risking detection and sneaking out of bed to get.

I’ve told my neighbor, “thanks for sharing, but no thanks.”

Eggs in a coop with a weasel probably have a better survival rate than those in my refrigerator.

Besides, no one will eat them anyway.

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