The battle to domesticate my sons continues.
Before Easter, I had good intentions of coloring eggs and baking.
I got as far as boiling the eggs, ran out of time and gave up. But I still wanted baked goods. So I set #1 son to baking. Pumpkin bars made with Bisquick. Minimal instructions. Even the frosting came out fine. And I told him at the time, that the paper carton of eggs, on the left, was hard boiled and not to use it.
Now, my refrigerator may appear to be a dangerously stacked trap for the unwary, made of leftovers that should have gone out on garbage day. But it is actually a careful arrangement of leftovers that should have gone out on garbage day. I know where everything is.
And when I realize at breakfast, that we are out of bagels, toast, yogurt and cereal because I have forgotten to shop? But that I tell my self that a couple of hard-boiled eggs would not go amiss, and that I don’t really like scrambled anyway?
And when I grab a handful of eggs from the left and slam them down on the stove to loosen the shells?
I don’t like scrambled any better when I’m mopping them off the stove-top. The dog found it fascinating, but he is easily amused.
Let’s say it together children. “Hard boiled on the left. Un-cooked on the right.”
And don’t think that incompetence will get you off KP duty.