I am out of eggs.
I’m not pointing any fingers, but somebody cooked eggs and toast and popcorn in my kitchen at 2:30 this morning, and it wasn’t me. Or Hubs. Or even Thing 2, because we encourage him to not turn the gas cooktop on by himself, as I suffer from visions of him lighting the entire house on fire if he does and leaving our family to live in a cardboard box under a bridge.
Now, I’m no detective, but I could probably sit behind a desk, with my feet up and a donut in one hand, while I make educated guesses on who did all the middle-of-the-night chef work over here. Apparently, when Hubs and I picked the boy and Enzo up from the golf course at 8:30 last night, after they’d played nine holes and eaten bacon-cheeseburgers at the clubhouse and announced that THEY WERE SO STUFFED, THEY COULD BARELY MOVE; SO STUFFED, IN FACT, THAT THEY WOULD NEVER EAT AGAIN, I was wrong about thinking that their appetites were killed until morning.
And? You mothers of ONLY GIRLS? You have no idea on the amount of food it takes to grow boys into men. I’ll admit, I grew up with just a sister, and I was unprepared for this little tidbit either. I came into the boy’s teen years, totally unaware that an entire box of cereal would become an afternoon snack.
This past Sunday, Grammy did her very best to fill those boys up, too. As is our custom, we celebrated Birthday Week over here again, because a week of festivities is always better than a single day. Grammy cooked the boy a birthday dinner of all his favorite foods: crab legs, grilled steak, watermelon, homemade bread, brownies and Dr. Pepper. Other than cold cereal, cheese pizza AND EGGS, I’m pretty sure she covered every food group that the boy is passionate about.
She even set out a table for two in the yard, where all of the major crab-leg-cracking took place.
The Birthday Brownies were quite tasty, too, because Grammy doesn’t believe in boxed mixes. She makes everything from scratch, with real flour and eggs (because no one has eaten all of hers) and sugar and love.
I believe PYROMANIACS is the word you’re looking for, when you’re talking about teenage boys. They have enormous appetites, and they want to light everything on fire and watch it burn. That about sums them up.
It appears that we have no eggs for breakfast.