On this rainy day after Memorial Weekend I ponder how our country’s unofficial kickoff to summer was different in 2020. For many, it wasn’t. They partied and gathered in large tight groups as always. I pray their recklessness doesn’t push the curve back up in 14 days or so. For others, respectful that COVID-19 is still on the prowl, it was a holiday to share with family and few friends—socially distanced as safely as possible. For me, burgers at my boyfriend’s on his Big Green Egg was perfect.
Because it was just us we didn’t bother with a bunch of sides, compulsory for any proper picnic. We laughed remembering a Memorial Day get-together at my house seven years ago, when I introduced him to some of my friends and pickled eggs. We had just been dating a few months and I was unaware of his dislike for red beets. Detest, really. A picnic favorite of this Pennsylvania girl, hard boiled eggs pickled in beet juice have remained taboo around my boyfriend. He can barely look at them in the display case when we shop at my favorite deli in my hometown.
A day or two after my party, he wrote a hilarious story about his encounter with pickled eggs. In fact, I have been encouraging him to start a blog. His writing is that good … and that funny. So, instead of going on here about coronavirus (not much else newsworthy lately) I will steal an idea from a blogger friend who invited her husband to write one of her posts (coincidentally, about eggs) and I will publish my boyfriend’s story here, complete with a byline—and permission:
Abuse, by Harry Schnabel (May 2013)
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Ms. Hen. I picked you out from a flock of others because your ad stated you don’t let your feathers get ruffled. I see you graduated with honors from Pecking Order University. I am laid with your accomplishment.”
“Thank you. Now, please, tell me your name and how I may be of help to you.”
“My name is Pic L. Egg and I have been abused. And, because I have been abused I want to see the guilty party get into hot water. Then when we win this case, I want to watch her boil with regret for what she did to me. I want others warned about this abuse and to roll away if at all possible.
“I was born normal; a little out of round, but normal. My parents were regular parents; scratching out a living, sometimes watching a neighbor running around with their head cut off. You know, clucking about living conditions and complaining about the pen leader, Rooster O Bumma. After birth, my parents gave me up. Some human picked me up, and sent me to a factory where I was washed, boxed and shipped to a store. I’m sure, Ms. Hen, you have been told life stories like this, but soon after arriving at the store my life took a very bad turn. You see, I was selected by a woman by the name of Lorrie DeFrank. I am sure she did not want me to learn her name but she made the mistake of putting me on the same table as her mail.
“This DeFrank woman is the one I want to sue for abuse! Here is why. My life looked great. I mean I was looking forward to being cracked and my clothes being slowly pulled away, becoming part of an omelet with my buddies Am Cheese and Grn Pepper, or part of a casserole for a single man, or any number of wonderful life ending experiences. But no! This deranged DeFrank woman had horrible plans for me. She made me into a hard boiled pickled beet juice egg! What a degrading experience! It happened this way. First came the hard boiling, which was ok by me. At that time, I thought my future was yolk golden. Maybe I rolled the wrong way because we had a cooling off period after which I was tossed into this large jar of gross red beets. To make matters worse, the red beets must have had the pee scared out of them because the jar was full of red beet liquid. And, to my surprise, there were other egg prisoners in there, too. No egg should be treated that way!
“So there I laid on top of other egg prisoners. Slowly this tart red liquid seeped into my outer layer turning my pristine white to a streaked red. I fought it, but I could do nothing to stop the advancing flow of red pee. It was a burning sensation as it invaded my white. She kept me in that jar for what seemed to be years. But, that’s not the end of this offending ordeal.
“Then mean woman DeFrank took me out of the jar. Imagine, after all that, with a strange look in her eye, she approached me with a knife. I was horrified! She cut me! She cut me! Even that, I might have been able to stand but by cutting me in half, she altered my entire appearance. Now I no longer resembled an egg at all. Now I looked like a badly bloodshot eye staring unblinking from a plate. Double gross.
Photo taken that very day:
“I’m sorry for the tears and thank you for passing the wax paper to blot them up.
“There was this man at the party, a real hunk. He said he loves eggs, but I had been abused so badly he wanted no part of me. In fact, he tried to avoid even looking at me. You want to know how bad, demanding, A type personality this unglued DeFrank woman is? She forced him to eat one of my fellow prisoners. Would not give up until he gagged him down. Then, in front of others, as he was swallowing water as fast as he could, she passed the egg plate and asked if he wanted another. I could tell he almost had a heart attack.
“Ms. Hen, there it is. My story of abuse. Can you help me?”
“Yes, Pic, I will help you. This devious DeFrank woman must be stopped from maiming other sister and brother eggs. I will take your case, and do the best I can for you. But, please, do not count your chickens before they hatch.”