Sunday, April 06, 2014
I also taught Margaret how to peal an egg. When she did it for the first time she squealed "This Fun!" She then pealed three, and asked for more. It was to bad we ran out! I will boil some more soon. In the mean time, here is a poem about eggs.
I do not like the way you slide,
I do not like your soft inside,
I do not like you many ways,
And I could do for many days
Without a soft-boiled egg.
With their yolks and whites all runny
They are looking at me funny.
Lying face-down on the plate
On their stomachs there they wait.
Poached eggs on toast, why do you shiver
With such a funny little quiver?
I eat as well as I am able,
But some falls underneath the table.
With so much suffering today
Why do them any other way?
By Russell Hoban