I’ve been sick recently. Nothing major or life threatening; just feeling a little out of sorts so that all I want to do all day is curl up on the couch and sleep until I feel better. My wife tells me I’m a huge baby when I’m sick, but I see nothing wrong with taking the time to be lazy and recover from an illness. I admit I could probably get away with a little less whining and complaining, but that’s just the way I roll.
My wife’s threats of suffocating me with my own pillow aren’t going to change anything. I’m about 67% certain she won’t actually do it.
Besides, she is the kind of personality that when she gets sick, she denies that she’s sick until she passes out and has to go to the hospital. Personally, I think a couple days of staying in bed is the better way to go, but I will never convince her of that.
My favorite part of being sick, is the ability to indulge in comfort food. Mashed potatoes with lots of butter; grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup; and my personal favorite, soft boiled eggs.
Eggs might sound a little odd to some people, but when I was sick as a kid, that was what my dad would make for me in the morning. It always made me feel better. Probably because I could eat it and keep it down even if my stomach wasn’t really cooperating with me that day. Most of the things my mom would cook were practically inedible at the best of times. Breakfast usually consisted of a bowl of cold cereal because I knew better than to ask my mom to fix anything for me. There is only so much raw bacon and burnt toaster waffles a kid can swallow before he just gives up on the idea of breakfast completely.
But on the days I was sick, my dad would make me three, soft boiled eggs with butter, salt and pepper, then make some toast to go with it. It was pure heaven. It was even better on those rare days that I was sick enough to stay home from school. I could curl up on the couch with my breakfast and leisurely eat while I watched the TV. This didn’t happen very often, however. My mom was one of those people that believed if you are capable of physically standing up, you can go to school.
If I was in the bathroom throwing up, my mom would come in and say, “Well, since you’re already awake, why don’t you get dressed and go to school? We’ll see how you feel when you get there.”
I already knew how I’d feel when I got there. I’d feel like: “why the hell am I at school with a 103-degree fever?”
When I got older and lived away from home, I learned to make soft boiled eggs for myself when I didn’t feel well. It was never quite as good as when someone else made them for me, but I still enjoyed the reminder of those days at home.
I tried making soft boiled eggs for my kids when they were little. I wanted to pass the tradition along to another generation as sort of an homage to my dad. It didn’t go as well as I had hoped.
I remember when EM1 was about five years old and got sick. I made her some eggs and toast. I was genuinely excited to make breakfast for her and couldn’t wait to see the smile on her face as she enjoyed the same breakfast I had loved so much as a child.
She took one bite, chewed on it for a minute, then spit it back into the bowl. She ate the toast, and asked, “What else you got?”
Not the outpouring of gratitude I was hoping for.
EM2 liked it even less. She just looked at the eggs before running out of the room saying she would rather be hungry. Of course, EM2 currently lives on a diet of Hot Pockets and gummy bears, so what does she know about food?
My wife isn’t a fan of soft-boiled eggs either, so I guess, for now, I’m the only in the family keeping this particular tradition alive. That’s fine, though. It means I only have to cook them for myself. The rest of the family can fix their own breakfast and be miserable.
Cold cereal anyone?
Maybe when I have grandkids, I can try again. And maybe this next time, I shouldn’t start out giving the kids soft boiled eggs right away. It’s possible that the reason I like them so much isn’t because my dad made them for me, but perhaps because my mom didn’t make them for me.
Maybe a few years of charcoaled toast and runny pancakes is necessary to prime the palate to the point that it is ready for the delicacy that is the soft-boiled egg. Good things can never be truly appreciated without a little hardship to put them in proper perspective.
And it is also possible that I am making way too big of a deal about this whole egg thing and I should just go lie down for a bit.
.
.
.
Enjoying Deep Dark Thoughts? Follow me on Facebook so you don’t miss a post. Just go to my page and click the “Like” button to receive updates on my blog and other projects.
And you can follow me on Twitter @gallenwilbanks.