My Child Is Severely Allergic to Eggs. I Decided to Secretly Eat Them Anyway.
I finished my run through the park with Mabel, our dog, and stopped at the farmers’ market. Frost glistened on puddles, and the air smelled of apple cider. My stomach growled. A sign reading FRESH EGGS caught my eye, and my mouth watered. I felt a strong urge to buy some, but stopped myself, waging a familiar internal battle. I shouldn’t; it was dangerous. My daughter is allergic, and I shouldn't risk the contamination.
I had treated myself just a few weeks before with a slice of quiche, but that was at a café, outside our home, and I couldn’t justify spending $12 on breakfast regularly. I could cook and eat eggs at home, for less than one tenth of the price. But dare I?
For seven years, I had avoided this hazard. Now, with my husband at work and child at school, maybe I could secretly, and safely, indulge. Warily, I walked up to the farmer and bought six eggs.
Back in our kitchen, I boiled water, picked out one tan-colored specimen, and placed it in the pot. Then I wrapped up the carton in plastic, and slid this to the back of the top shelf of our fridge, with a note written in large permanent marker: "EGGS!!! Not for Noodle," I wrote. Noodle is the nickname we use for our second-grade daughter. Just in case underlining her name wasn't enough, I added a skull-and-cross-bones doodle for extra emphasis. That should protect her, I figured.
Noodle has severe food allergies. One bite of egg could make her throat close, which is why we had not brought any home for more than half a decade. But picturing that farmer's jaded chickens made me realize I was tired of sacrificing my own meals to my kid’s allergies, even when she was away.
Five minutes later, I removed the soft-boiled egg from the pot. My toast was waiting to be buttered. I grabbed a knife and spoon, careful not to choose from my daughter’s section of the flatware drawer. I was about to cut the egg in half, but stopped. I needed to get the butter on the knife first, for my toast, to ensure that no bit of egg would then touch the butter stick or butter dish. First the toast, then the egg, to avoid compromising my child. Two deep breaths. I’ve got this.
I sat down and savored each gooey bite, while being careful not to dribble any yolk on the tablecloth, which my daughter might later touch. And I used paper towel instead of a cloth napkin, and tossed it as soon as I was done. I felt like an intruder in my own home, trying to steal a meal without leaving one single forensic clue.
I didn’t even feed Mabel any scraps. If the dog got egg on her face, it could transfer to Noodle and cause a reaction. Mabel also ate only egg-free, nut-free dog food, which was not always easy to find, and required extra time spent reading labels.
I cleaned my dishes with more paper towel - not the dish brush, used for family meals. After scrubbing and rinsing, I put them in the dishwasher as an added precaution.
I washed my hands, and took care not to drink from the metal water bottle I often shared with my daughter. And I didn’t use my Chapstick, which Noodle often borrowed. Even these items could transfer traces of egg that might harm my child.
While a boiled egg tasted good to me, omelets and sunny-side ups were my favorites. But that’s where I decided to draw the line, because cooking those would involve egg caking to the pan, or dribbling onto counter tops, perhaps. There would be too many variables to control, and this made the foreseeable stress level not worth the tasty reward.
I might be vigilant, and meticulous enough - but my egg-eating behavior already felt disturbingly close to OCD, and I would push this bar no further. The point was to enjoy a nutritious, delicious dish, not to welcome neurosis; and I asked myself, was this worth it?
The answer was a thousand times yes. After almost a decade of abstinence, it would still feel worth it if I had to walk to the edge of the world to reclaim something I enjoyed, lost for so long under the weight of motherhood. With a boiled egg, contained in its shell, there was little to clean and less liability. It cooked in a few minutes, and I ate it in the same amount of time, in the serene company of my non-judgmental pet. Soon, the mess was gone, the threat to my child was erased, and my sanity felt not only intact, but oddly refreshed. This simple boiled egg hit the sweet spot and refueled me, in the best way.
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