“You hard-boiled a carton of eggs,” he says as if we’re in the opening act of a 90’s sitcom.

“Yeah.” I want to smile so badly at what’s coming, but refrain in the off chance I’m wrong.

“I went to crack one open and I was like, ‘Whoa, this egg is rotten.'”

Can you see it? The underneath of a pat of butter starting to melt and slide across the warm pan. His anticipation of all the ingredients coming together in a sizzle. The salivating and hunger pains. And then the repulsion, maybe even a hint of worry that one he’s chosen should have ended up at the local country store under a heat lamp instead of our fridge.

Well, it is the day before Easter, dear.
The smile comes. Because I was right, and it is so delicious.