Back in February 2005, I was living in a creaky old house that had been dubbed Arkham Asylum. It was named that because a) I was a Lovecraft geek, b) the other resident, my then-boyfriend Christopher Jones, drew Batman comics for a living, and c) the house was made entirely out of eldritch noises and non-Euclidean angles. We’d put a lot of work into that house, but it still remained… full of personality. I do miss that weird home.
Back in 2005, I was also still a terrible cook.
Tales of my bad cooking were somewhat legendary. There was a day in my life where I attempted to make a grilled cheese sandwich three different times, and I managed to set all three on fire. There were pre-made soups that turned into curdled chunks of inediblity. One time, I actually did manage to set water on fire.
Beyond that, during this particular winter, I’d repeatedly had issues with eggs. I’d dropped entire batches of scrambled eggs on the floor. I’d fumbled two uncooked eggs, in separate incidents, onto the stove top, where they promptly caught on fire. I dropped hard-boiled eggs onto the floor at work. I dropped an entire grocery bag of food on the Arkham Asylum’s back porch, causing 18 eggs to roll underneath the deck, making them irretrievable and, eventually, smelly.
One particular dark, cold night February night in 2005, I had managed to get some eggs home without causing them any grievous harm. Chris wasn’t home, so I decided that I’d relax, watch a movie, and perhaps make some hard-boiled eggs for a snack.
I knew I was tempting fate, but I’d gotten the raw eggs into the refrigerator without incident. This victory was heady and potent. Also, it’s pretty hard to mess up hard-boiled eggs, right?
Thus, I salted some water, popped in some eggs, turned on the stove, and headed into the living room.
…where turned on a movie.
…and where all thoughts of eggs vanished from my brain. Continue Reading →