CAROLINA OMELETTE RECIPE

A pipesmoker whom I know internetally is going to throw fourteen eggs at her husband, who is also a pipesmoker whom I know internetally. This thing is happening on the other side of the country, so I will not be a witness.
But I expect that there will be photos. I demand that there be photos.

No, I have no clue why. It's Southern Pipe Smoking Zaniness.
She's from Mississippi. They live in South Carolina.
There are fourteen eggs waiting for him.

14.

Not being personally involved, and also not being even marginally in the line of fire, I can naturally only approve of this, and encourage it. I suspect that,
at some point, he will have his revenge.

If I were him, I would go to bed immediately afterwards. And hug her during the night, while still covered with eggs.

Of which there are fourteen.


Both of them are also well on their way to becoming crazy cat ladies. That may or may not be relevant. It has not (yet) been mentioned how the cats feel about this. But their positive feedback could be assured if anchovies were to be included. Sort of a Caesar Salad. With garlic and croutons.

I am now fondly imagining both of them, plus fourteen broken eggs, a tin or two of anchovies well distributed, and several cats, all lumped together in a happy stink puddle, waking up this Saturday morning listening to the rain.

Those photos will break the Internet.

Crunchy bits!



AFTERWORD

In the interests of full disclosure, I should mention that I do not live in the South, have only the haziest idea of what life there is like (my thoughts about that are now more vivid than ever), and am not likely to ever get anywhere near either Mississippi or North Carolina. There are fewer than a dozen eggs in my apartment, and it is fairly certain that no one will ever pelt me with eggs. I lack the sense of humour to be able to appreciate that if it were to happen.

I got drenched by a fermented shrimp condiment once. Didn't realize it was chemically unstable, so when I popped the lid off, a foul smelling spew went everywhere. In retrospect, that does seem mildly amusing. There are probably still little shrimp eyeballs in the nooks of that kitchen.

No women or cats were involved.


By the way: three years ago she was smoking some frightful aromatic pipe tobacco, moon-baby orgasmic cherry pie, or something. She smokes more civilized stuff now. Both Latakia mixtures, or aged Virginias. Without those nasty fruitloop perfumes. So there is progress.
She may have finally left the dark side.

Except for a seasonal fondness for pumpkin spice pipe tobacco.
Probably that's just to lure the little children, though.

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