(Song Dedication: Basket Case by Green Day…because eggs.)
Me? I love me a soft poached egg. That would be choice numero uno. I used Spanish there because I am impressive and it was also the last time I ate said poached egg, on our trip to Cabo San Lucas at the beginning of February. Before that I can’t be entirely sure when my last ingested egg took place because like many of my favourite things, I discovered through my Naturopath’s intolerance testing, that I am in fact, intolerant to eggs.
They used to be a staple for me though. Scrambled or hard boiled were my runners up if I didn’t have the patience and diligence to poach an egg, such a delicate affair egg poaching is, which is why I might add, they are my very favourite…err, use to be.
But with all the other ways to prepare an egg, you or I would not likely ever ask for them to be presented the way my husband managed to Sunday morning. We were sitting at the kitchen island, I with my bulletproof coffee and Jack with his giant pancake the size of his plate (thanks to his Dad’s cheffing expertise). Andrew, moving into his second mug of ginormous coffee…because Sunday…was reaching into the fridge to reward himself with some bacon and eggs.
The weekend had been pretty great to this point. Friday we shared a drink at the house with my parents and we all went out for an over-indulgent Greek dinner. Saturday morning was lazy and then we leisurely packed up (most) of our gear to hit the ski hill for a half-day. That was by all measures, epic.
The snow was fluffy, the powder generous. The fog cleared as we sat on the second longest t-bar in North America (so I’ve been told) taking us to the top of the mountain. Our son has progressed greatly this winter in his ability and skill. We were doing something as a family, that we all enjoyed…together at the same time!
Except for that one little hiccup when we arrived and turned to see Jack sitting in his booster seat with only his long john’s on…not his snowpants. I didn’t panic. I calmly asked if Andrew had packed them, kind of already knowing the answer. He went into the lodge to check if a lost and found pair might do the job to no avail. Then he and I both went into the ski school to ask if they might have a pair. She went downstairs and praise Jesus, came back up the stairs holding a slightly big pair…with purple suspenders. But nope, we were doing this. We drove all that way. It is almost the end of the ski season. We were not pulling the plug if we had a functional pair of ski pants.
When we returned to the truck to give Jack the pants he adamantly refused. “I am NOT wearing purple ski pants.” I mean, good for you son, standing in your own space, claiming your truth for all and any to hear. But he was only seeing the purple suspenders that took up 10% of the pants which would be hidden under his coat anyway. So I matched his energy word for word, also not backing down (maybe even shifting into a higher gear to gain some traction) I adamantly retorted, “You are wearing these because they work and we are NOT turning around and going home because you don’t like the purple suspenders.”
There was a brief and curt exchange that followed this as he attempted to hold his ground, but by that point he could see I was unwavering and it was MY program he was going to have to get on, if he wanted to survive the next few hours. Like I said, minor hiccup.
I got a little (lotta) pissed. I had to get firm because we have a very strong-willed child. I have no idea why?
But once we were all strapped and clicked into our bindings there was no turning back. And what a helluva day we had together. It was fun, exciting and imperfect. We were all grateful for it.
So ya, back to Sunday morning. Andrew and I were feeling pretty good about how we parented our way through the previous day’s ups and downs and now we had Sunday to relax.
As Andrew reached into the fridge to grab the full carton of eggs, something went horribly wrong during the transfer of energy sliding the eggs from the shelf into his strong capable hands and as I sipped my coffee I looked over the lip of the cup to watch the eggs, all of them, come loose from their protective plastic cover.
It was as if the carton had suddenly and violently been hit with the same flu we had all endured over Christmas, spontaneously vomiting its contents in a yokey, viscous eruption down the crisper drawer, shells collecting on the ledge of the freezer drawer, the rest cascading down the freezer front to pool on the floor in a eggy puddle of “and that’s not how I take my eggs, ever.”
But what happened next was like a tiny tear in the time space continuum. As Andrew stood hunched over in disbelief, trying to catch a suicidal egg in vain, he turned his face to looked at me. And in that space, that wink of time, is where I saw the magic happen.
I think we both took a breath as our eyes met and I just smiled. I genuinely, no need or worry of judgement or outcome of insta-worthy best angled smile, smiled. The corners of my eyes creased, the corners of my mouth upturned and he mirrored it right back to me. In that moment, there was presence, humility, joy, connection and love.
I turned and looked at Jack and we both began to laugh. Andrew turned to look at the dog, who had also mysteriously not reacted, but was sitting calmly upright…maybe the only one in the room wondering What the Fuck Guys? That’s a real waste of eggs you know?
It was a strangely tangible, intangible moment. Unscripted and unplanned. It said so much between who Andrew and I have become as a couple. It said even more to our son about responding to imperfections with grace and dignity. Heck, it even showed us how well trained our giant puppy is that she didn’t jump in uninvited to lap up our mess. It was a pop quiz that we tackled well because it’s what we’ve been working so hard to do, be present. Be kind. Surrender to what is. And for crying out loud, have a laugh, cause shit been way too serious around here these days.
It was a one time thing, but this one time I was grateful to have my eggs all fucked up, all over the floor to show us how far we’ve all come.
*interestingly 2 eggs actually survived this travesty – this could be a whole other pithy parable for deeper truths and lessons but I’m good.
**two other eggs appeared to be salvageable, so I attempted to hard boil them – this too could be an off-shoot cautionary tale…but let me just say in earnest, do not try to reclaim fractured eggs via boiling, I now own a pot who is a permanently scarred bystander to this fiasco. It didn’t need to go down that way. I should have just surrendered the eggs to their untimely fate.