I am a dorkus!

I am a dorkus.

You might even go so far as to say a dorkus malorkus. Why? Well let me tell you.

At the age of 41 years I put an egg in the microwave to cook it! Can you imagine the lack of thought that went into that?

I know enough not to put eggs in the microwave. I saw the Mythbusters microwave edition, I saw the burns on my sister’s face after she “fried” an egg in the microwave. I have heard any number of apocryphal tales, and yet just the other week I put an egg in the microwave to cook.

In my defense, (and I will take any I can get,) the egg was already hard-boiled and I just wanted to cook it for a little bit longer. In my defense, I was a vegan for 15 years and am not totally wise in the way of eggs. In my defense, it was for the baby and not for me.

Look – it is bad enough that I am not a vegan any more, and that I am letting the baby eat eggs at her precious age. It is a sure sign of how much I have “matured”/”sold out” that I would be letting eggs get cooked in my kitchen. What if the vegan police find out? Maybe my mind was so clouded by the ageing/maturing/selling out process that I didn’t even stop to consider the high ass factor in what I was doing.

Anyhow – I had these eggs that were barely hard boiled (what do I know for boiling eggs), and her majesty would not eat them. So I thought well maybe if they were a bit harder, surely if I pop one into a container of water and put it in for 3 minutes it will firm right up. The water will absorb most of the microwaves, and it isn’t like eggs explode when you boil them. (See I was sort of thinking). Well at about 2 min 48 sec., there was an all-mighty BOOM, the door of the microwave flew open and a boiling mist of water and egg proceeded to coat nearly the entire kitchen. The odour was hellish, burnt sulfur, the consistency was crumbly and sticky all at the same time. I was so embarrassed. I opened all the windows, put on the fan and used up nearly two rolls of paper towel and lots of citrus cleaning fluid trying to set things right.

N. came home just as I finished and could tell something was going on, but I wouldn’t share. I still haven’t. I told the teenager, but she just seemed to see it as proof of my senility. The only reason I am coming out with the story now is that we had dinner at the mother-in-law’s place last night and N’s brother admitted to doing almost the exactly same thing. He had the foresight to peel the thing first, but the result was the same.

I think I will just not give the baby any more eggs and that will help me avoid any more egg-based disasters. I don’t even like the taste of eggs.