Okay, so I know it's technically past midnight, so it's day twenty-nine, but on day twenty-eight, which was only eleven minutes ago, I helped host a soiree in honor of the poet Ed Skoog, who was visiting our university, and included in the spread of appetizers my roommate and I prepared was a platter of deviled eggs. Prepared by me, eaten by me. And eaten by a bunch of other people, too. Which is good. Because I couldn't have eaten another one.
Basically, my deviled egg was a wily fellow. He tasted good at first. Then he tried to choke me. And when I managed to get him down, he kept kicking inside my gut. Not so much fun, and not entirely his fault, since I had a much larger dinner than I've been used to lately, and the egg was sitting on top of that. It's the egg white, man. The boiled egg white. It's just not right. It's necessary, I guess, to hold the deliciousness of the yolk, but why should I have to eat it? I can imagine the lovely deviled filling on crostini or crackers--man, that would be good. But the egg white? It's healthy, sure, yadda yadda yadda. But in boiled form, it's still not topping my charts of good eats.