little rascals

When Linds and I would go to the grocery store, we'd say (from childhood days spent watching Sesame Street) "A loaf of bread, a container of milk, a stick of butter." (Or however it goes.) Em taught me to open a carton of eggs and run my fingers along both rows to check for cracks. Mom showed me how to situate the eggs in a bag, nesting them safely away from things such as containers of milk. Maren taught me to like organic milk. Dad taught me how to put the clutch all the way in while simultaneously hitting the breaks. And, in third grade, under the tutelage of Mrs. Banks, I read the book "Rascal." (That was the same class that N. showed the entire class how to lock Mrs. Banks in the closet, but that's worthy of a blog post all its own, and entirely unrelated.)

The other night, I was headed home from the grocery store quite late. I had been careful to place my carton of eggs on the other side of the back seat, far from my half-gallon of organic milk. (It is also essential to the plot to mention that among the grocery items in the back seat were a small pot, nestled inside a larger pot, both of which were situated within a glass pyrex pan.) I pressed my foot to the clutch and reversed out of the parking spot.

Just as I turned down the main street, I spotted three sets of eyes which glowed in the beams of my headlights. Gray and black stripes streaked across the dark of the night, three midnight bandits up to no good. I put the clutch in at the same exact time my foot hit the breaks, but it was too late. No, this story doesn't end with a taxodermist, although Al could teach me all I need to know about that. Right as I slammed on the breaks, barely missing those little Rascals by the skin on their noses, I said aloud, "Eggs!" And then, the crash: a loaf of bread, a container of milk, a stick of butter, a carton of eggs and one large crash. It was like New Year's Eve in September -- pots clanging pans, eggs hitting pots. I didn't dare look. My Driver's Ed teacher taught me to keep my eyes on the road. I continued home.

When I drove into the driveway, I feared the worst. I lifted one pot lid at a time, revealing what I thought would be one yolky, possibly glassy mess. Not exactly the midnight casserole I had in mind. However, as I pulled the plastic bag with the eggs inside from the rubble, I opened the carton and ran my fingers across each row of eggs. Not a single crack. Apparently 12 very wise mother hens had taught their eggs the importance of helmets. We all walked away without a single scratch. Now, if only those racoons would teach their children to look both ways before crossing the street...