I am a goddamned genius.
I know, I know… I promised you that this wouldn’t be my craft blog—you’ve got plenty of those (if you haven’t, I can make some recommendations) and it sure as hell won’t be my food blog (again, if you’re in need, I can make some recommendations) because the internet is full of those and those are for people who clean their house even if nobody’s coming over.*
But this one time, I have to tell you what I’ve done.
It began, as so many things do, on Easter Sunday.
Because I am a busy lazy person, I forgot to cook the eggs until the day before, and then forgot to color them until that morning. So. Easter Sunday, and I’m dying eggs. Whatever. Offspring was no help, because even though he said he wanted to color eggs, what he really meant was that he wanted for there to be boiled, colorful eggs in the house and for me to make a mess with a crazy-ass art project while he watched me get in trouble for destroying the kitchen. Again.
Anyway, after the eggs were done and I was photographing them (because, thanks to Instagram, we now know that nothing really happens unless it’s photographically documented, filtered, and rated by strangers) it occurred to me that there had to be a better way.
ME: Why do we boil the eggs before dying? I mean, why is that the tradition? Is it just so kids can eat them right away? Because we’re also giving them candy…
HIM: So they don’t go bad?
ME: They’re eggs. Chickens sit on them until a farmer remembers to come by and collect them, then they sit out until someone cares enough to package and sell them, and still they sit out until someone decides, “shit, these are gonna be out a while, we’d better refrigerate them.” Overnight, or even most of the day won’t hurt them.
HIM: In case Kirk loses the egg map?
ME: Those were also boiled eggs. If you don’t find ‘em all, cooked or raw isn’t really going to make a difference. This is why Playboy Mansion egg hunts use blown out eggs.
ME: Girls Next Door.
ME: I’m just thinking that we put a lot of extra stress on ourselves, buying eggs a month in advance so they’ll be ready for boiling in time for Easter, just to dye them and have boiled, dyed eggs in the fridge.
HIM: You want to dye raw eggs? That’s fine.
ME: That’s what I’m thinking. Colorful eggs, ready to go, all around Easter!
HIM: For that matter, who says they’re only for Easter?
HIM: You could have festive eggs all year.
ME: I WILL GLITTER THE CRAP OUT OF SOME CHRISTMAS EGGS. Just you wait.
ME: Seriously, I think we’re on to something here: who says colorful eggs are only for Easter?
ME: I defy you to find that in the Bible.
ME: In fact, I defy you to find a bible.**
HIM: He did! There was the bread, that’s the body, the wine, that’s His blood, and the eggs… I think that was his testicles?
ME: You’re going to hell.
HIM: (laughing) Yeah, but I’ve got a good map!
Now, I’m sure he thought that was the end of the matter. Because—as we’ve established—he doesn’t actually pay attention when I talk plot.
But you know, don’t you? I was serious.
A few days ago, I sent him out for more eggs. A few hours later, he found them like this:
I tell you, this is my greatest idea ever. I’m finally living my best life. Colorful eggs! Every day! A different color scheme for each holiday or season!
I made myself an egg sandwich this morning, and the simple act of opening the carton made me smile.
Offspring made meatballs last night, and I swear they tasted better because he used blue and purple eggs to make them. (He thought so, too)
Look, I’m not here to tell you how to live your life.*** But this is seriously the greatest thing you could possibly be doing for your grocery routine, I promise you.
Sure, it takes time to dye them every week. But then I thought, it takes less time than vacuuming the stairs, and I hate vacuuming the stairs. So obviously, I’ll just do this instead, right?
* That is not me. I’m currently looking at a comfy green chair that is covered in dog hair and it’s going to stay that way until I need to put my ass on it.
** Husband is Agnostic, which delights me about him but there are at least two bibles in the house and I doubt he’d be able to find one under threat of force-choking.
*** Yes I am.