It was like any other Saturday afternoon. I was in my studio creating something and Dale was in the midst of a backyard beautification project. My stomach was rumbling, but I knew I had to wait a while until my “feasting” window opened. I’m fasting intermittently to reset my system and generally feel better.
After a bit, I decided to go to the kitchen and boil a few fresh eggs that I had purchased at Me and McGee Market. The egg shells were that beautiful caramel color, and I imagined the yolks would be deep yellow and full of flavor. I put five eggs into the water, turned on the flame, and headed back to my studio, anticipating the goodness of hard boiled farm fresh eggs.
Jaxon, our 70 pound Old English Sheep dog came and laid beneath my art table. He was whining, so I reassured him that “handsome daddy” would be finished in the yard soon. Jaxon continued to whine and I ignored him. He whines a lot when Dale is out of his sight.
A few minutes passed and I began to smell something cooking. I thought, “My sweet Dale has stopped what he’s doing to come in and cook something delicious for me.” I felt lucky.
Jaxon scared me when he started barking, so I politely put him out of my studio, telling him I was sorry but that he had to go. “Daddy’s nerves can’t take all that barking. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
About the time I escorted Jaxon out of my space, I heard a voice from the kitchen. “Oh. Oh, Jim.”, the voice said with great disappointment and a tinge of despair. I yelled, “Is everything okay?”.
“No, can you come in here?”
“Of course I can, sweet man.” As soon as I walked into the hallway I realized what had happened.
I turned the corner into the living area. It was filled with smoke that resembled the thick fog of London that’s in every Jack the Ripper movie I’ve ever seen.
I did the walk of shame to the stove. There were no eggs left in the pan, and there was egg shrapnel everywhere. I kid you not. Egg shells. Egg yolks. Egg whites. It was as if the eggs had become grenades under the prolonged heat of the fire. There were chunks of egg on the cabinets, on the floor, on the walls, on the island, in the next room. The eggs had literally exploded. It was a mess, and as you can imagine, cleaning it up was a chore because the protein had become transformed into Gorilla glue. To lighten the mood, I said, “Oh Dale. I’m eggstremely sorry.”, which was met with silence. Not even a chortle.
I could tell that every molecule in Dale’s body was rolling its eyes, but sweet Dale took it in stride because this isn’t the first time I’ve been so absorbed in my art that I’m transported to somewhere between here and there.
Now I understood what Jaxon was trying to tell me. “Timmy fell in the well.”, or in this case, “Daddy, there have been a series of explosions in the kitchen and it has me concerned. Can you please stop what you’re doing and see what’s going on?”