Monday, March 24, 2008
I hate eggs.
I really hate eggs.
On holidays, my mother still has to sneak boiled eggs into my grandmother's prized stuffing recipe before I notice. I still pick them out.
The texture is what gets me. The rubbery, gelatinous, sulphuric protein has been a bane of my existence. When I lived with a host family in France, the father one night made a giant plate of scrambled eggs for dinner. I went hungry. (okay, that's an extreme way of putting it. I just ate bread and cheese instead.) Mr. O's mother presented me with a scrambled egg casserole for breakfast within twelve hours of me meeting his family for the first time. Not about to say no, I ate the plate-sized portion handed to me and haven't let him forget since.
But it just wouldn't be Easter without deviled eggs. My sister is the best deviled eggs constructor. I pale in comparison to hers, but mine are still pretty good.
Mr. O kept me company while I colored the eggs.
And then he kept me company the next day while I peeled and deviled them. This part makes me gag a little.
With enough mustard, I'll even eat the yellow part.
Oh, and my family recipe for most things holiday relies heavily on this stuff:
Sorry, can't share the recipe for this one. Perhaps Deviled Eggs: 50 Recipes from Simple to Sassy will help you on your journey to find the perfect devily goodness.