Eggs Can Go to the Devil
I woke up this morning talking about eggs. My husband made boiled eggs for breakfast and when I went into the kitchen, there was the egg, unpeeled, rolling on my plate. Made me reminisce. Mostly disagreeable memories, I’m sorry to report: as a child, I was not an egg fan. So we had a little egg talk on-line (boiled, fried, scrambled) and even veered into advice re: milk toast as a hangover remedy.
Then I release the 5th story in the Cain’t Do Nothing with Love collection, and what’s in the first paragraph? Eggs.
I didn’t remember that.
It truly is an egg kind of day.
“Providence and I were dancing. We called it playing Baby Dog—she tucks her head underneath my chin, holds onto my chest with her paw—when we waltzed into the kitchen and there was the Devil. Baby Dog did not stir: she isn’t a sentinel, she’s a Yorkie. Mr. D. was offering fried eggs, sunny side up, but I wasn’t biting. I couldn’t make him leave because I’d foolishly invited him across my threshold, but I did not have to eat his runny eggs.”
Listen to the rest of the story here: