I was up bright and early this Thanksgiving morn, a Hillbilly with a mission. The mission being to whip up my traditional holiday deviled eggs, put the finishing touches on the oreo cake I baked last night, and haul them plus some veggies and dip and a sugar-free yellow cake with sugar-free chocolate icing to my mom's house for dinner. A dinner which was fantastic, by the way, but not all about me. So let's get to the ME stuff.
I have so much energy in the morning. While cracking and peeling those store-bought eggs (which is much easier than peeling eggs fresh out of Farmer H's chicken's butts), my mind was firing on all cylinders. And maybe a couple of backup emergency cylinders that kicked in just because. My mind was flitting from one scathingly brilliant idea to the next. I always get my most scathingly brilliant ideas in the morning, usually in the shower or on my way to Newmentia. I'm sure I will remember them later, but that rarely happens. They are gone like Jerry Seinfeld's bedside notes. Flaming globes of Sigmund, indeed! You don't think it has something to do with my Levothyroxine, do you? Is that stuff like legal speed, or what? Not that I've ever taken illegal speed. Anyway, if you think Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is speeding, take it up with her thyroid. Oh. That's right. You CAN'T! Because her thyroid was ripped from her throat May 25, and is probably just now reaching the mouth of the Mighty Mississippi, having floated on buoyant medical waste and backstroked its way to the Gulf of Mexico.
So where was I? Peeling eggs at my kitchen table, first knocking them on a paper plate, then rolling them about to separate that clingy membranous egg skin dealybobber. Not this morning, but sometimes, I am able to peel an entire egg in one continuous strip, like some folks do with an apple. But I will tell you right now that recoiling that egg shell into a hollow egg and passing it off on an unsuspecting victim is not nearly so rewarding as folding up that foil gum wrapper after chewing the gum, and offering it to your buddies.
After all eggs were peeled, they were then sliced in half to sort out the yolk for the devil part of the egg. The eggs who were not so pretty, not smooth and eggy, but pockmarked and unsightly like the gams of a coltish 13-year-old gal after her first foray into leg-shaving with her daddy's straightedge razor, were set aside to be used for sampling the devil. It took two tries this morning to reach the proper degree of devilness.
Once the eggs were done, their olive halves safely ensconced upon the fluffy yellow devil, I turned to the cake. The cake was in fine shape, no sunken center, no burnt edges, no thick side/thin side. Thanks, Betty Crocker. I cannot extend my thanks to Duncan Hines. I made a critical error in forgetting that Duncan is a lightweight, too thin to cover my cake. Fie on you, Duncan Hines. I should have remembered to get the BLUE lid frosting, by Pillsbury. Creamy Supreme, Classic White, to be specific. I can never remember. That Duncan Hines slid off my cake faster than a formal off a virgin on prom night. It took a concerted effort to get the whole cake iced and stashed in the 36-degree rear compartment of T-Hoe before my arch nemesis Gravity had his way with Duncan Hines.
By 10:00, it was all over but the crying and the clean-up. I stepped out onto the back porch to toss some eggshells and oreo crumbs overboard, because I can. In Hillmomba, the outdoors is just like one great big compost heap. The cats swarmed my ankles, so I sprinkled a few oreo crumbs for them on the porch rail. They're a tough crowd, those cats. The tan striped one with a pie-pan head took one sniff of those oreo crumbs and gave me the cold shoulder like Obama gave Hillary at the 2008 Presidential Debates.
But now it's almost 10:00 p.m., and I am winding down like a wind-up monkey with cymbals and disturbingly human feet. Good night to you!