It was a typical weekday afternoon. I had to in at least the 4th grade, because my oldest sister had her own room. I arrived home from school and, as usual, began my hunt for the perfect afternoon snack. It had to be something that would compliment my designated hour of television watching that I was allowed before homework.Sidenote: It’s funny how us girls kept such a strict schedule without consistent supervision. Daddy was at work.
Easter has just passed, so we had an abundance of colorful hard-boiled eggs in the kitchen. My memory is a little hazy, but I’m almost positive that there was a mini decorating party at my Mama Nola’s house. I loved hard-boiled egg, but I couldn’t stand cold food that’s meant to be warm. The eggs were the perfect snack after a long day of completing my class work early and distracting the other students out of sheer boredom. I had to have eggs lightly sprinkled with salt and pepper. Nothing else would do. And my eggs had to be warm. There was no other way to eat an easter egg. My mission was clear.
One would think that I would have called upon my much older (2 & 4 years) and wiser (not really) sisters. Not me. I was a certified (by an executive board composed of me, myself, and I) elementary genius. I didn’t need anyone’s help! I had the perfect solution!! The MICROWAVE. It really was my only option, since I wasn’t allowed to use the stove, and I knew that reboiling eggs would make them gross.
So there I was, in all my genius glory, peeling my two eggs in preparation. I figured that 30 seconds would be plenty of time to reheat my snack, and placed them on a paper plate and into the microwave. I should mention that 30 seconds was the perfect amount of time to reheat everything at that stage of my life. I press start and walk away. No more than 10 seconds later I hear a “BOOM” and feel the house shake. I freeze. Not because I think that I’m going to get in trouble, but because I think that I’m dead. I was so sure that the house exploded around me.
Once I’m sure that I still have all of my limbs, I rush to the microwave. I don’t open the door. I peer trough the little window, but can’t see anything because the 30 seconds is up and the appliance is beeping at me to remove my snack. I open the door and I’m punched in the face by the most horrific, life altering smell I’ve ever experienced. I vaguely remember my nose running off of my face and into my back pocket. What do I see? I see egg shrapnel covering every inch of the inside of the microwave. The smell quickly traveled from the little corner of the kitchen to every nook and cranny of the house.
Here is where my memory goes fuzzy. I’ve been known to block out traumatic experiences. I imagine that the oldest sister yelled at me within an inch of my life, and would have beat me if she thought she had permission. I also remember bits and pieces of me wiping exploded egg out of the microwave, and every door of the house being open in attempts to air out the smell. Not a good day for all the windows in the house to be painted shut. I haven eaten an Easter egg since. I practice safe celebrating. Only plastic eggs filled with candy.