As mentioned last week, there are so many stories to tell from our family visits. This one is so good it deserves its own post. Let’s call it “A Tale of Two Eggs.” We will continue with the he said, she said format, because as you will see, our remembrances differ—just a bit.

She Says:

One of my Misfit Toy’s favorite foods is a yolky egg, and it just so happens that his Dolly is rather skilled at producing perfectly soft, runny-yolked eggs. (YUM) For our epic first Family Visit, I was finally going to feed my hubby’s tummy as well as his . . . other appetites.

I listed the ingredients I would need for our muffins—English muffins, butter, sliced cheese, sliced ham, and of course, eggs. (Sliced ham for him, since I’m not a big ham fan.) This was back when a dozen eggs cost roughly the same as caviar. So I decided to order only ½ dozen.

While he sat at the round dining table (a very sturdy table), I was busy in the tiny kitchen which unfortunately for me—but not for your amusement—has an electric stove. Let me mention that an electric stove is my former nemesis. (I specifically remember fried potatoes in a stainless steel skillet that were concreted to the pan at a depth of about an inch.)

No matter!

I was confident in my yolky egg skills, even though all the yolky eggs I had ever cooked up to that point had been on gas stoves. Being a systematic, tidy, and organized cook (MFT says, and a very slow one), I prepped my ingredients and turned the stove up to about a 6 to preheat. Well, as those of you familiar with electric cookery will know, a 6 cooks very fast—a fact I did not remember, much to my chagrin. While MFT was abstaining from yolky eggs for twenty-four years, I was blissfully using only gas stoves for twenty-six.

The eggs were a little . . . dark. But still definitely yolky!

My dear, long-suffering misfit fondly remembers how proud I was, serving this obviously sub-standard yolky egg sandwich to him. (But I looked darn sexy doing it!)

That same visit, after accidentally cracking one of the priceless eggs into the trashcan, MFT decided then and there to take over the cooking. He needed to ensure that his six precious real-food meals aren’t squandered by his silly doll.

He Says:

For the longest time after I came to prison, I fantasized about yolky eggs. In my early years, I might get a somewhat runny one here and there, but nothing fulfilling or consistent. And as hard as I try, I just can’t seem to get them anymore. I’ve always reminisced about the days of having steak, hashbrowns, and yolky eggs or layers of buttermilk pancakes with 2-3 of them in between each layer. A yolky egg is a luxury. It doesn’t coexist with prison.

Now I have a wife who does all this Amish-like cooking that she’s always bragging about (everything but churning her own butter), and I’ve been talking for the longest time with her about how I can’t wait for her to make My First Yolky Egg. It’s been a part of our conversations, long before we were even approved for family visits.

Food foreplay: what should I have? Yolky egg pancakes or yolky egg cheeseburger or yolky egg pizza? I’ve got it! The one she’d make me would be on a toasted ham-n-cheese egg muffin sandwich. Whenever I joked about how important these rich, creamy eggs are to me and how she’d better not mess them up:“Pffft! I’ve got this!”

Now, at the time of our first family visit, eggs are expensive, and I’ve definitely planned out every egg to go with every ham and cheese slice to go with each (toasted!) muffin. This will be the first meal she’s made me.

I’m sitting at the round table, ready to be pampered and served like a king in his palace. I’m enjoying playing the old role, the domestic titan relaxing while his wife cooks in the kitchen. (But not barefoot! Dolly has a limit.[1])

So I’m sitting at the table, watching her all dressed up in 1920’s retro lingerie.[2] So this is an amazing feeling for me, sitting in the chair facing her. She has very long legs and good posture. Her outfit is partially see-through. It’s very artsy. That alone has my full attention.

I’m already aware that she takes a long time to cook, but this is my first time witnessing it. But I’m not going to interfere, nope! I’m just going to sit back and enjoy the ride. The first thing she does is look at me and act cute. She moves the little trashcan in front of the stove and cracks a golden egg straight into the trash.

She was shocked, embarrassed, giggling.

“Oopsie!”

But I’m not going to interfere, nope-nope. It’s just an egg.

She gets a second egg and cracks it into the skillet. Although I haven’t been in a domestic kitchen since 2001, I remember that once you put an egg in the skillet, you have to be mindful of it. It’s a fast process. But she’s doing all these extra cooking activities. Like wiping and straightening activities!

But I’m just watching. I’m not going to interfere. Nope-nope-nope! She knows what she’s doing. And I’m enjoying watching her cook. I’ve returned to drinking in the experience.

She gets it all together and brings it to me. She comes toward me with a rapid, mincing little scoot that manages to be both ditzy and devastatingly confident all at once. She carries it to me with both hands, sets it on the table, and sits down next to me all cuddly, very pleased and proud of herself.

My little bombshell: “Daddy, look what I made you.”

She’s bubbly-glowing, knowing she’s made something for me that’s so dear to my heart. I’m not even looking at the plate. I feel only a great connection with her.

I glance down at my food. It looks like a burnt, overcooked hamburger patty. For a moment, I think, Did she actually make me a burger? No, it’s an egg. I don’t say anything. I don’t flinch. I flip it over, and the other side is the same way. A matching set. I poke at it, and a pimple’s-worth of yolk comes out.

She’s shy and cute and nervous.

“Is it okay?”

I eat it with a smile.

Later, I tell her I’ll be cooking the eggs from now on. Yep-yep!

She Says:

After he ate his sandwich, my Misfit got up and made two egg muffin sandwiches, one for him and one for me. He cooked his first yolky eggs after 25 years. They were perfect.

[1] She says: “I’d do anything for love, but I won’t do that!”

[2] I bought it for her for a Valentine’s Day. I had feasted on her in it so many times in photos and videos, and now I have her here in it in the flesh. God bless America!