At 51, M’s not exactly a natural in the kitchen. One morning, I made hard-boiled eggs and kept his in the fridge until he finished a conference call. I took a shower and returned to find him looking a little sheepish. I half-noticed a shiny, white mark on his bottom lip, but didn’t think much of it.
“I made a boo boo,” he said, intentionally like a little boy.
“What do you mean?” I asked, leaning in to look at his computer screen, assuming he’d done something to his laptop. It was then that I felt something grainy on the front of his shirt, something that, on closer inspection, resembled egg yolk.
“What did you do?” I asked, intentionally like a mother.
“I put my egg in the microwave and took a bite, and it exploded on my face.”
That’s when I realized the white mark on his lip was actually a bubbling blister.
I marched into the kitchen, and he followed behind. Being a bit of a clean freak, I scoured the scene like a CSI investigator. Though he tried to clean it up, I discovered bits of exploded egg on the counter’s edge, the side of the fridge, the floor directly below. Then I looked at him. He’d applied Aloe Vera to his swollen lip, which made them look sort of bee-stung and glossy. I couldn’t help but laugh, and asked him why he would put a hard-boiled egg in the microwave.
“Because I wanted to warm it up.”
“How long did you put it in for?
“About a minute.”
Not exactly a natural in the kitchen.