MOTHERLODE
Sommerfeld: Household males egg one another on
February 8, 2010
Lorraine Sommerfeld
Whenever I make hard-boiled eggs, I make a dozen and put them in the fridge. The first two usually go into a sandwich for the Poor Sod's lunch, and the rest sit in a bowl that is pilfered every hour or two by whomever happens to be foraging.
After dinner the other night, I was pulling a pot of eggs off the stove.
"Are those eggs?" asked Christopher, 18, as he cruised by.
"Yeah."
"Can I have a sandwich?" he asked. We were still clearing dinner dishes away.
"You just ate!" I told him.
"I know! But can you make it the way Grandma used to?"
My mother used to make him sandwiches while the eggs were still warm. She'd toss a big gob of real butter into them, and present my wee son with a heart attack sandwich. He loved them.
"I'll make it my way. I'll call you," I sighed, hauling out a bigger bowl to mix eggs into. I knew everyone would now want a
sandwich.
Ari, 15, wandered by.
"Can I have a sandwich, too?" he asked, peering in the bowl.
"You just ate," I told him wearily.
"Yeah, but it's eggs. Dunno what it is about eggs," he continued. "How can something that smells like farts taste so good?"
I got out more bread. The Poor Sod eyed the assembly line.
"Hey! Can I –"
"No. Yours is for your lunch. Cut it out," I told him.
I don't always make his sandwich unless I'm in a charitable mood. That occurs infrequently. He usually makes his own – though he knows if I'm watching, I take over. I chop onions, get lettuce and use salt and pepper. I will slice tomatoes; I will use wraps. I am a sandwich genius.
When I first met him, I watched him make an egg sandwich by peeling two hard-boiled eggs, put them – whole – onto a piece of bread, put another piece on top and then wrap it up. He has now progressed to slicing the eggs, which is more than he does with a chicken breast. I have tried to explain that just because something is between two pieces of bread it doesn't mean it's a sandwich.
He shrugs.
"There are days I think, `This just might take me half an hour to gnaw through,'" he admitted. I shook my head sadly.
I was away recently for a week. I left a huge lasagna for the first night, and then they were on their own. They ate lasagna for two days, then started making chili. Lots of chili.
One night Ari made a dozen wieners in those roll-up things. He and Christopher ate them all. The Poor Sod was sorry he'd fallen asleep. I was glad I hadn't been home.
I was in the bath last night when there was a knock on the door. We only have one bathroom.
"What?" I barked.
The door opened a few inches, and a black frying pan was waving around.
"Do I need to spray this with that stuff? I'm making eggs," said Ari in a muffled voice.
"Yes."
I went back to my magazine, and he went back to his post-dinner meal.
I came into the kitchen a short time later to see his creation.
"You know what'd be really funny?" he asked. "I was thinking of switching the fresh eggs for the hard boiled ones in the bowl.
"That'd be really funny."
I looked at him.
"Funny for whom?" I asked flatly.
"For whoever got egg all over themselves! It'd be great!" he said, laughing.
And people wonder why I'm scared to leave them alone.
Lorraine Sommerfeld appears Mondays in Living and Saturdays in Wheels. Reach her via her website lorraineonline.ca.
Toronto Star