I was 10 and dressed in my “Sundy best” prepared to visit my drug-smuggling stepfather in prison on Easter. I had a basket all prepped for him because it’s a big deal to receive hard-boiled eggs when you’re incarcerated, and because kids don’t know to ask reasonable questions like “what in the fuck?”
Being dedicated to design since birth, I wasn’t pleased with the look of the basket I was about to deliver. It needed to appear fuller and more glamorous. So at the last minute I dyed some raw eggs to add to the mix, not realizing that if you include raw eggs in an Easter basket and fail to disclose that information, the receiver will unknowingly be playing Russian egg roulette.
He smugly smacked the first egg against his jail bunk bed expecting to create envy in all his cell mates. An oozy mess dripped down the metal frame instead. Fortunately this happened after our departure. I remain thankful he was already in jail on that particular day.
This disaster caused Mr. Doe to use his next phone call to berate my mother for allowing me to pull such a prank on him. As I explained earlier, this was an act of aesthetic improvement only. I swear – you put shrimp eggs in someone’s iced tea one time and they never forget it. Anyway, Mr. Doe was incredibly embarrassed by the whole ordeal, which I never quite understood. What on earth could be more humiliating than that orange jumpsuit?
Easter tip: hard-boiled eggs need to be just that. It’s why eggs remain the only food item in the history of cooking to receive their very own special timer.