Roasting The Rabbit Would Be Simpler

Welcome, one and all, to Deviled Egg Central.

Mrs. HM is draggin' her wagon today, folks. Because she failed to complete her holiday treat prep yesterday. Never mind that she fell asleep in her recliner at 11:30, and awoke at 3:00. Did you know the Easter Bunny is not very clever with his egg-hiding at that time of morning?

Farmer H tried to bail on the egg-coloring Saturday night. He said, "You and the boys can handle the eggs. I'm going to the auction." So I conveniently moved up the dyeing time. He would shove the baby birds out of the nest as soon as the last fragment of shell fell off their feathers. I, on the other hand, would fill their flapping beaks with regurgitated worms as long as they clamored for sustenance.

The Pony wanted to color eggs. Even the #1 son dropped his latest electronic quest to join in. Farmer H came in at the tail end, to micromanage, making The Pony so nervous that he dropped an exquisite pink egg that had been soaking for thirty minutes. It was beyond salvage. The CRUNCH when it hit the floor was the first clue. The Pony's long face was the second. He started to throw it off the back porch. Then King of the Castle H commanded, "Why would you do something like THAT? I'll eat it." So he retired to the front porch for his pre-dinner protein feast.

After unsuccessfully waiting for the boys to sleep, perchance to ignore my clumsy efforts at egg-hiding and basket-filling, I succumbed to the not-so-elusive ZZZZZs. You would think one might be refreshed after a 3.5 hour nap. Not so. I muddled through my holiday duty. The baskets were set by the front door with care, to allude that the Easter Bunny once had been there. In case you're wondering, I had asked #1 if he was too old for an Easter basket. "NO!" I think he made his stance on that issue crystal clear.

This morning, I still needed to make my chocolate pudding pie, bake the Oreo cake, and peel and devil two dozen eggs. I had to awaken both boys so I could get on with it. That blasted E. Bunny had hidden eggs in my kitchen. After a foray for 44 plastic eggs, we were still short 11. I could not believe the sheer, unbridled inattentiveness of two teenage boys. I told them, "After this little exercise in egg-hunting, I am ready to call the optometrist and schedule appointments for Monday." Further failure to find shiny metallic eggs inches from their heads, ensconced in wicker broom and butterfly wall-hangings led me to reconsider. "Forget that! We're loading up and heading to the ER to have an ophthalmologist diagnose the problem with your peepers!" After some fruitless efforts at, "You're getting warmer. Warmer. Your head is going to burst into flames!" the final eggs were found. That's why we use plastic.

#1 ate some chocolate, and hopped back into bed for a thirty minute nap before church. Farmer H took off to town for his barroom breakfast buffet. As if a bar would be open on Easter Sunday morning. I let him go. He figured it out on his own. My word would not have been good enough. The Pony gathered up his laptop and headed to the basement for intermittent gaming until I needed him for errands.

My first task was cutting Oreos in half to ring my cake when finished. The ones that don't cut cleanly are tossed in a bowl for chopping, then included in the batter. After putting the cake into the oven, I turned to the batter bowl. The Pony always refused to lick it, because for so many years, we told him it wasn't good for a child of his tender years, what with the raw eggs itching to give him salmonella. #1 was napping. So the job of cleaning up that bowl enough to wash it fell to me. I was promptly rewarded with a string of brown batter down the front of my shirt. I guess that's why real chefs wear aprons. While the cake was in the oven, I put together the pudding pie and set it in the freezer. Cake done, I set it on a rack to cool while I prepared to peel 24 eggs. A task easier said than done.

I woke up #1 to get ready for church. On his way out the door, I asked him if he wanted a bite of potato salad to tide him over. Boy does not live by chocolate alone. He needed a serving of the breakfast of champions, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Potato Salad. As he was scooping a forkful out of the home container, he saw the cake cooling. "What? No batter bowl?"

"Nope. It's already washed. You were sleeping, I thought."

"Huh."

He finished his potato salad and went to grab his stuff. I walked through the living room to call to The Pony, and saw in the mirror a line of dried chocolate cake batter on my chin. "Why didn't you tell me that I had batter on my chin?"

"You did? I didn't see it?"

Sure. That's what reminded him of the batter bowl, I suppose. Or else we really, really DO need to get a vision exam. Duly embarrassed by my gluttonous faux pas, I returned to the kitchen to commence skinnin' some chicken fruit.

After approximately 75 minutes of peeling, slicing, chopping, dashing, smashing, squirting, and grinding...the filling was ready for the egg whites. I put a bit on a sliver of not-so-perfect white, and called my loyal kitchen helper, The Pony. Together, we determined that it needed more fresh-ground pepper. I filled the egg halves, applied two slices of olive to each, wrapped up the ones going to Grandma's, and slathered the rest on the rejects. The Pony feasted. I think his total came to four. He was ecstatic that #1 was not there for a share. And that Farmer H was only getting two. Because, you know, he would be full from his barroom breakfast buffet.

For the record, no eggs returned from Grandma's house.