I usually like to post about my nobler cooking and dining experiences, but no one is perfect all the time and even the most pretentious foodie has his or her dark moments stuffing junk food down their throats, perhaps late at night in a secluded room. Last night I did not sink that far, but it was certainly an interesting evening that involved a lot of unnecessary egg carnage and a very messy kitchen.

It started innocently enough. I came home from work and decided to use up some of the vegetables lying around the refrigerator. So I threw mushrooms, broccolini, green beens, carrots, and celery in a pan with a little a lot of butter, some garlic, and some white wine. While that bubbled away on one burner, I started another pot to poach my egg (Egg count: 1). A few minutes later, I had a plate of beautiful veggies with a perfectly poached egg lying on top. For anyone who watches Top Chef All Stars, I could not agree with so-called “egg slut” Wylie Dufresne more: “The yolk is nice and runny, just the way we like it.” I love warm, runny yolk. It was a simple, strange dinner, but also tasty.

I ate my food, relaxed on the couch, chatted with roommate Becca when she arrived home, and thought that my culinary adventures for the night were over. How wrong I was. Around 11 pm, dear roommate Nick decides to grace us with his presence. Let me remind you that it is the season of holiday parties, and Nick had clearly participated to his fullest abilities in a holiday party open bar. Somewhere in the course of our weaving conversation, I mentioned that I had a poached egg for dinner. It was like a light bulb lit up inside his head.


Several flags went off in my mind at this point. But, because I like to encourage my friends to follow their dreams and because I wanted a good laugh, I said, “Go for it.” The first several steps of this process actually went by without a hitch, and by the time the water started boiling I thought that perhaps this would not be such a catastrophic event after all. But then he started with the eggs.

First egg: actually a moderate success (Egg count: 2)

Second egg: Nick pokes the yolk open in the water, ruining it (Egg count: 3)

Third-Sixth eggs: Nick pokes the yolks open in the water, each time insisting that it’s somehow not his fault (Egg count: 7)

Seventh egg: I get frustrated and demonstrate how to poach an egg. I’m sure being sober helps. (Egg count: 8 )

At this point I wander out of the kitchen, thinking that Nick will happily eat the egg that was actually poached and call it a night. But after a suspiciously long time had passed, I went to check on him again and saw that two more eggs (Egg count: 10) had met unfortunate ends in Nick’s Pot of Death. Nick was happily scooping remains of the massacre out of the pot and collecting them on a plate. It was an unappetizing mess, but he ate every last bite.

You may have noticed that we are two eggs short of a dozen still. Well that is because after watching the carnage of Nick’s zealous poaching, I got hungry again. I know, this is confusing because all his eggs looked so gross, but it is the sad and embarrassing truth. So I pulled out some of the leftover mushrooms from my first dinner of the night, threw them in a pan with butter and the last two eggs I whisked together, and made an omelette. Add ketchup and hot sauce, and that, my friends, is how to use (waste?) a dozen eggs in one night.