The absolute last thing that I intended to do tonight was cry over deviled eggs - and yet somehow, that's exactly what ended up happening. I'm not exactly what you might call proficient in the kitchen - I'm not a bad baker - cookies and biscuits and the like are well within my abilities. Outside of the oven - I'm kind of a wreck. Luckily, my husband likes to cook - likes it and is good at it.
I've wanted deviled eggs for about 6 weeks now. Finally, tonight, I was going to make them. How hard could they really be anyway? I started cooking while C mowed the grass. Boiled eggs. Sounds simple enough. Inept though I may be, I can boil water with eggs in it. (I should mention that while all this was going on, I did successfully manage a couple of pans of chocolate cookies - don't judge me. Or do - I'm beyond caring at this point.) As I peeled the first egg, it became obvious that it was not actually hard boiled. So I put them back on the stove and tried again. After bringing them to a boil the second time, I was convinced that they MUST be hard boiled now. So I peeled them all... and as I sliced them in half, dreaming of the deviled eggs that I had waited soooo long for, I noticed that they were all STILL soft boiled. C came into the kitchen and started telling me what he would have done differently - and driving me crazy because he was about one pot of boiling water and 12 peeled eggs too late. The filling for the eggs was completely liquid. He blames my soft boiled eggs. I blame his heavy handed use of pickle juice. The truth is probably somewhere in the middle.
He suggested that we make egg salad... EGG SALAD. I didn't want EGG SALAD. I wanted a FRAKKING DEVILED EGG. So I stubbornly poured the yellow egg water into 4 of the white shells. And I cried egg sized tears as I ate them. And C made egg salad.
I should just go to bed.