Bedeviled

I was standing at the corner of 1st avenue and 3rd avenue, patiently waiting for my deviled eggs to arrive when, out of nowhere, a thought hit me: “What if my eggs were never to arrive?” Before I gave way to panic, I decided to cross 1st avenue to make sure I was on the right corner. After a little while, I proceeded to cross 3rd avenue, then 1st, then 3rd again until, after half an hour or so, I was back where I started with the same thought waiting there for me. I was really concerned: the idea of my deviled eggs lost and hopeless in this jungle of brick and mortar had me close to a panic: “What if they fell into the wrong hands?” Attempting to control my breathing which was by now close to a pant, I decided to sit down on the curb and take off my shirt. This would put me in a much better position to assess my situation; my nipples feeling the cool evening breeze providing needed relaxation. My eggs were an hour late and I had to prepare myself for the worst. Although I knew I could live through this catastrophe, it would be a great loss.

Deviled eggs mean a lot to me. For as far back as I can remember they have always been at the very center of my being. After all, they are often the only date to accompany me to pot luck parties I attend. But they are more than that. Elaborated from purity and a hint of carnal sin, they bring comfort yet are demonized. Their color represents both the pure whiteness of snowy peaks and the yellow hue of the snow one does not eat. The truncated ovoid shape of the egg white is like Noah’s Ark withstanding stormy seas to preserve its precious cargo while the protuberance of fluffy egg yolk is the heavy fog that drives so many ships to disaster. Their duality seems boundless: firm yet soft, mild yet spicy, bland yet tasty, both the beginning and the end: they are a universe in a bite. Deviled eggs mean a lot to me.

Another hour and still they were not here, I was getting weak; the thought of being stood up was eating me up inside. Fond recollections of happier times occupied my mind: the pool party where my eggs were so enticing with their sprinkle of paprika or the after-ski gathering where the hint of hot sauce made the other guests blush; O the memories. Every time I heard a car coming, I would jump up but as it drove by without stopping, I would sink into a depressed state again. Why now? What did I do wrong? What was the meaning of it all?

Then, when I no longer expected it, the familiar white Oldsmobile pulled up next to me. As I glanced at the passenger seat, I saw them, protected as they were in the old faithful Tupperware deviled egg container. In the driver seat my mother, spewing out excuses I was too excited to hear. My eggs were there in all their splendour, life was good.