Of All Things Deviled - EGGS!

No names have been used to protect the non-innocent, and henceforth, we shall speak of eggs; and of all things eggy, only those that are deviled!

Let's begin with pitch-in dinners at church.  Deviled eggs can come from the little old lady who only makes a saucerful.  She's learned to cook for two, herself and dear hubby.  She's done her part.  Teenage boys can whimper with hunger!

Then there's the old-fashioned country farm cook, the one that says her recipes are handed down from her mother, from her mother's mother, and from the women on the ark!  Of course, they're sprinkled with paprika and sprout a sprig of mint!

Then there's the gourmet chef, the one that cut zig zags into the edges so they could lock like a finger puzzle, the one that squirts the filling in with a beauteous squeeze of her icing bag to make a perfect flower print on each waiting half.

Then there's me.  Boil, crack, cut, whip to mix, fill, display, devour.  Two dozen at a time.  Let's not be pretentious here -- a deviled egg is a deviled egg and it's a delicious one bite wonder!  "Two to go, please!"

Yep, I secretly dearly love deviled eggs and would eat the one that tore because it wasn't the least bit presentable, oh so tasty.  And it was a wonder to behold when I realized that maybe, just maybe, there was someone else out there that loved 'em as much as I.

He was tall, he was muscular, he was broad, he was dark haired, he was happy, he was my teenaged son's best friend, and when he went through line to fill his plate at the church dinner, his eye caught my eye as that FIRST deviled egg slid into his mouth and his lips closed over, and his eyes twinkled with merry devilment while his fingers reached to put two more on his plate.  Gulp!  Evidence gone!

But there was a moment of discord, dare I say tragedy, in the timeline of my life when my deviled eggs were doctored.

I had the yolks all smashed and the ingredients mixed in and had turned my back when a visiting old lady decided it needed something.  By her sons she was called "The Queen of Substitutions".  As I turned back around she quickly tried to hide the bottle of Ranch Dressing.  Insult!

Lately, though, I received the greatest compliment of all time.

We were preparing for a cookout for Memorial Day, a long three day weekend for most people, when my youngest son brought his girlfriend over, "Mom, would you show her how you make your deviled eggs?"

"They're the best."

Well, I'll be deviled!  My sons dearly love 'em, too!

Infiltration of Little People

Little People, a girl, a boy, and a baby, entered our sons lives first, then ours.

Immediately, they stole our hearts, and we capitulated, "Awwwww."

Then they toddled on 2 feet and said "Nana" not as endearment but as in "We want your bananas!"

After two of them reached doorknob height, they quietly forayed into the bathroom and discovered our toothbrushes, they returned to the living room to bare their pearly whites and declare, "Teef clean!"

But all was held in the balance when the youngest put together two awe inspiring words; breaths were held, women were askance, men mentally bowed to her intelligence when with a Vanna White grin the one year old patted her padded rear end and bragged, "I farted."

Finally, we knew without a drop of doubt that all was lost when we located their misplaced shoes -- the granddaughter's first, then days later the kinship care boy's --  sitting left beside right, purposely parked next to Grandpa's on the shoe shelf.

Little People!  They decided.  They planted their flags.  They're here to stay.