Ah, June… Summer is at our doorstep, the days are (almost all of them) seeming to get a little bit longer, and for the second year in a row I am partaking in my daily blogging exercise, marginally focused along a theme I’ve simply called Those 30 posts in June. No planning. No writing stuff days ahead. Just this: each day a meanderingly vague prompt drives a meanderingly vague post… and today that post just happens to be:
June 5th // Something You Have Eaten
Sunday was an egg-kind-of-a-day. And it all started with a long run in the sun…
Story #1: Hard Boiled Pairs
The thing about running with a group is that you end up spending a lot of time with random people you would otherwise have very little in common with. What brings you together is your interest in the sport, which is then — often — an hour or more of time when you are trotting around a neighborhood for the fifty-seventh time trying to hold a conversation about something other than the weather, the scenery or the running itself.
Often, we talk about food.
On Sunday we were talking about eggs.
See, one of the guys I run with is a — well, let’s just call him urban blue collar. He does carpentry or something and works from his shop in his garage, conveniently located near to a 7-11 convenience store.
He was explaining to us that one of his favorite snack breaks is to walk over to the 7-11 and pick up a grape Slurpee and two hard boiled eggs — 99 cents for a pair — an anecdote that was greeted not with the eye-rolling curiosity I would have expected from some of my less adventurous running companions, but instead with a methematics lesson and fairly involved debate on the economics of buying eggs in larger quantities than two.
Consensus was not reached, but it did leave me to interject with my own support for Slurpee-and-Egg guy in the form of…
Story #2: Eggs By Weight
I might have mentioned that I’ve been eating a lot more salad lately. I don’t always eat out at lunch, but lately when I do it has largely become an exercise in designing a creative and tasty salad from the Sunterra Salad Bar. My favoutite combination to date includes an eclectic mix of the following: lettuce, sprouts, shrimp, a few cubes of ham, chick peas, purple onion, mandarin orange slices, sesame orange dressing, and… a hard boiled egg.
I don’t actually know how much those hard boiled eggs costs me, but I think I’ve probably consumed enough in the past few months to have made any exercise in boiling-a-dozen and refridgerating the economically sensible alternative.
Though, like my running bud, that’s not going to happen.
Why? Well, apart from the fact that making harb boiled eggs at work is neither an easily facilitated activity nor a particularly productive use of my time, even if my eggs are actually costing me fifty cents a piece — or six bucks a dozen — having a ready supply of cooked, peeled, and nicely-chilled eggs handy a few hundred feet down the mall is a “value added” (as they say in the agriculture industry) option I’m willing to pay for.
I related my story of pre-boiled-egg consumption to the others in the group, but by that time the egg conversation had pretty much fizzled and I was headed home for…
Story #3: Eggs Dipped
I don’t know that I’ve mentioned it much before, but my grandparents owned an egg farm. Yeah… thousands of hens in a big red barn, their eggs dropping onto an elaborate conveyor belt system that led to a collection, cleaning and sorting room where my grandfather and a couple of my uncles spent years of their lives. I spent a few summers there, and since they sold and moved when I was still not-quite-a-teenager, my memories of the family farm are largely idealistic or re-constructed from family stories and grainy photographs.
I was telling Claire a little about her family history as she delicately mopped up bits of runny yolk with little snatches of toast and popped them into her mouth.
Apparently a four year old can not only enjoy a good egg, but can also hold a very specific cooking-style preference for her eggs. She likes them sunny-side-over, with the yolks runny enough to dip. Lucky for her I’ve cooked enough eggs in my life to fulfill such particular requests.
I had come home from a twelve kilometer Sunday morning run and — not having eaten much before the jaunt — had attempted to fill my famished gullet with a late breakfast of some fried eggs and toast (all that egg talk had got me craving eggs, I guess.)
Claire wasn’t going to let that slide without getting in on the action, and made herself a piece of toast and politely informed me which of the cooking eggs was hers.
And so, together, we ate some eggs and talked for long while about her family history… at least as it related to eggs.