Thursday, April 18, 2013


I tried to make perfect hardboiled eggs today. I craved them deviled.

I failed to make perfect hardboiled eggs.

In fact, they were the most imperfectly boiled eggs I've ever accomplished.

After their ice bath, I peeled them and, for want of a better phrase, gave them a "squeeze feel." They felt gooshy, not hard, medium boiled at best. So I put them in a glass bowl with no cover and nuked them another minute or so.

While I was waiting for the microwave's ping, I pushed the shells down the disposal and turned it on. It seemed unbalanced and knocky, and I wondered if it were possible for an unbalanced disposal to fly off the pipes, which prompted me to imagine in great detail what would occur should that happen.

I pictured metal bits flying through the cabinet doors under the sink, with shards ripping into my knees and shins, which led me bleakly to pressure cookers and shrapnel and all the images and aftermath of the bombs at the finish line of the Boston Marathon.

As I was thinking these things, I took the eggs out of the microwave and dumped them on a paper towel--and one of them exploded, hurling the yolk into my stomach. I shrieked, and then started laughing hysterically. Hysterically.

I looked for an exploding egg image online that would do the
incident justice. I couldn't find one, so I drew this. And now I
see that I somehow managed to give it balls.