They are not stuffed eggs. They are deviled eggs. And they must be on the table for family holiday gatherings, especially Easter.
As I made them this weekend, my oldest daughter said, “Isn’t is ironic that we eat deviled eggs on Easter?”
Ehh…just as the Son of God crushed Satan and sin once for all on the cross, my family crushes a lot of deviled eggs on Easter Sunday? There is a speck of a metaphor or simile in there somewhere.
I’ve heard that the sound of someone’s voice is the first thing to go from your memory after someone dies. But, when I make deviled eggs, the only thing I hear is my grandmother’s voice on repeat.
“I’m sorry y’all about those eggs.”
“I just couldn’t get the shell off without tearing them up.”
“I’m sorry y’all if you get a shell.”
“My old fingers just wouldn’t cooperate.”
“I’m sorry the eggs don’t look pretty, they probably don’t taste good either.”
She’d say a variety of these phrases over and over again anytime she made deviled eggs, and now it’s all I hear as I peel the shells. She’s right, you can’t get the shell off without tearing up the eggs. Someone will probably bite into a shell. They don’t look pretty, and who knows what they’ll taste like, because there is no recipe.
I know there are hacks to make the shell magically fall off the egg, but I don’t have any interest in egg shell hacks. I’d miss the sound of her voice if I used them. I wouldn’t think of her fragile fingers as my own fingers struggled to peel the shell. I wouldn’t be taken back to her kitchen. I’d miss an opportunity to remember her.
I claim deviled eggs every time the family text thread begins with who is bringing what to a holiday meal. Just like Granny Rosie’s deviled eggs, they are ugly with a camouflaged fragment of a shell or two, but the tray is always empty when the meal is over.
The tray. The decades old Tupperware I got my hands on after she died. From one grandmother I have a plastic container for storing deviled eggs, and from the other grandmother I have a beautiful milk glass and gold platter to display deviled eggs. I have options.
The Tupperware that has evidence of Granny Rosie’s initials in red fingernail polish, lest it was confused with Ms. Betty’s Tupperware egg dish at the church potluck. Because what else is nail polish for, than to claim your dishes during clean up in the fellowship hall, or to stop the run in your panty hose as you rush out the door for Sunday School?
The star of the show is paprika, because a sprinkling of the red powder can really make ugly eggs look pretty, or at least edible. Smoked paprika, to be precise. Granny Rosie used regular paprika, but I made it with smoked paprika once and I’ll never go back. Sweet relish is a close second to the smoked paprika. They really do come together quite nicely in the Tupperware, don’t they?
I’m sorry y’all about those eggs. My fingers wouldn’t cooperate. I couldn’t get the peel off without tearing up the eggs. They don’t look pretty, and who knows if they tasted good, but the tray was empty when the meal was over.
An empty Tupperware container…kind of like the empty tomb? No?
This is weird, but this is my favorite writing that you have shared! The corky things of life are our memories and what mean the most! Keep writing…you have a gift!!!
And now you have me wondering about the connection between deviled eggs and the empty tomb 🤣
I still hear my grandfather’s words. It brings them closer.💕