Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

Eggs in the half dozen box at the grocery store hold a special place in my heart. That little box is just so precious and wee, kind of like a kitten. But… you know… more like an unfertilized chicken fetus. Whatever.

There are so many things you can do with a half dozen eggs. The first, and most obvious for me, is cake. I so love cake. I handed out an old family recipe for Strawberry Cake to a couple of friends on Facebook yesterday and it has me craving a decadent three-layer, perfectly pink Strawberry Cake with cream cheese frosting. Probably I’ll make one of those in the near future.

Or maybe a delicious batch of scrambled eggs with lots of cheese is your thing. I do love a good plate of scrambled eggs. I load them with cheese and pepper and pile them up on toast. Mmmm… why do I not make more scrambled eggs?

What about homemade pasta? That takes eggs! I’ve ventured into that arena a few times. Mostly with ravioli because if I’m going to make homemade past, I figure I may as well go whole hog and stuff it with cheese and garlic. EVERYTHING is better stuffed with cheese and garlic. No?

I do have a still unused and in the packaging frittata pan that I could probably dig out and give a test drive. Although a frittata is basically a quiche without the crust and the crust is the best part of the quiche… don’t you think? I’m quite adept at omelets and only send one crashing to the floor about every third or fourth go-round. Surely that would take up six eggs….?

Easter eggs! I could make out of season Easter eggs, couldn’t I? I don’t know if you know this or not but I was raised by a VERY crafty mother. I was the queen of the seasonally appropriate t-shirt or sweat-shirt with matching hair bow. But I have a very clear recollection of standing over the sink and blowing the innards out of eggs one Easter because she wanted the eggs to “last longer” and not get smelly. So we died hollow eggs shells with little pin holes in each end. And broke every single one of those fragile little bastards within a matter of hours.

I suppose I could also whip up a batch of egg salad although the thought of egg salad has always kind of made me dry heave.

Without fail, eggs have always made me gravitate towards baked goods. Cake. Cookies. Brownies. And if I pick a recipe that ends up not having eggs and I don’t get to experience that satisfying THWACK, I feel cheated.

So it seems appropriate, I suppose, that my potentially Un-Punk-Ass Ovaries have found it within themselves (and gently and lovingly prodded along by LOADS of Repronex injections) to create SIX beautiful and perfect eggs.

Six eggs that have grown and appeared exactly when they are supposed to and are just cooperating beautifully.

Six eggs that caused my Dr. Wonderful to do a little happy dance in the exam room.

Six eggs that have me, once again, clinging ferociously to the possibility that my Busted Uterus and Punk Ass Ovaries may just figure this shit out after all.

I should re-title this “In Praise of the Six Pack”. Okay… if you want the Strawberry Cake recipe, tell me in the comments and I’ll email it to you!

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that second pink line. I shook and sling that stupid home pregnancy test around like it was a fly swatter. And when I was positive that second line wasn’t going anywhere (like… where, exactly? Sticking to my bathroom wall as I flung it about?) I ran into the bedroom and despite the early hour jumped on the bed, woke Patrick up and screamed “IT’S POSITIVE! IT’S POSITIVE!” Then I burrowed back under the covers and snuggled up for a few more minutes of precious sleep while this was still our little secret.

A few hours later, groggily, I woke up trying to remember if it was real. What had happened. Something didn’t feel quite right. So I climbed out of bed and went back to the bathroom just to check. I looked on the bathroom counter where I was sure I’d left that test. Nothing there. I checked in the trash can, I checked under the covers, I checked both nightstands. Nothing. Was it possible it was just one of those weird half awake and half asleep dreams?

With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I realized I was going to have to take another test. It was the only way to know. And as I watched that one little pink line just hang out all by its lonesome, I knew. It had all been in my head. Even though I could still feel the scruff of his goatee as he pressed his groggy face to mine. I could still sense the warmth under the covers as we huddled under the covers and whispered excitedly about what was next. I could still feel the cold floor briefly under my feet that were barely touching the ground.

It’s amazing. The mind can make the body be so certain and feel so many things. I spent an entire two weeks with stomach cramps and nausea. Headaches. Heartburn. Sore boobs. Bone-crushing fatigue. I was so certain. Then Saturday morning I had my dream. And when I woke up, once my frantic search had determined it was all a dream, I noticed that those symptoms were gone. Along with my hope for this cycle. Everything just… evaporated.