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#ADULTING: The Tale of The Hard Boiled Egg

I’d like to consider myself a pretty savvy person. If I don’t know how to do something, I take a lot of pride in my ability to figure it out. Take the desk from Pottery Barn I assembled at 11 pm last night despite the fact they sent me the wrong instructions. Blood, sweat, tears, and a quick call to my mom venting about my frustrations.  Desk- MADE, Problem- HANDLED.

Grocery shopping for one person often presents its own unique set of challenges. I always end up buying entirely too much food and have to figure out what to do with all the excess so it doesn’t go to waste. There are a dozen eggs in my fridge that have been left untouched, so I decided to do the adult thing and hard boil them.

Logical Right?

Hot Water + Eggs = Hard Boiled Eggs

I got this.

But when I went to actually execute this 1+1=2 process, I realized I was a bit lost. So I Googled a recipe. “Place eggs in cold water, bring to a simmer then cover for 17 minutes


So I pop the eggs in a pot, cover the eggs with some water, and pop those bad boys on to the stove. I proceed to grab my coffee, plant myself in front of the computer and completely forget about the fact that I’m supposed to be checking on the water for it to come to a SIMMER.

Well, 30 minutes later, at what I’d consider to be a solid rolling boil I remembered my little kitchen science experiment. So I pulled them from the heat and let them sit for a while.

Then it said to “fill the pot with cold water and let them sit again for another 20 minutes“. Now, this is turning into an all day event.

So I do that and then immediately forget about them again (noticing a trend?).

Then I decide to peel them all at once to make it easier to grab and go later. Because I am a responsible grown ass adult who wants what she wants when she wants it.

As I begin the endeavor of peeling these eggs, I quickly realize I have entered the 6th layer of Dante’s Inferno. THEY WON’T PEEL. They’re coming apart, they’re sticking to the shell, my sink is a mess, the eggs are suffering serious casualties.

Never the less, I preserve, I peel my impossible eggs, and what I am left with after my 2 hour Martha Stewart feat are 5 scarred up, beaten, and battered eggs.

That’s kind of how adulting works. You realize something simple is actually complicated, and complicated things have a way of working themselves out. You just have to do it. There is nothing out of your reach if you aren’t afraid to fail, even if it means losing half of your eggs to the shells.

+Stay Groovy, Kirst