Thursday, March 19, 2009

Scrambled (or, Grandma's attic, part I)

First, I'll tie up a few loose ends. We had a great visit with my mom (aka Grandma Wanda), her big hairy Lab-Chow mix Tuffy did not eat the baby (this was Seth's personal fear), and we made it home just fine. The experience of flying with a 3.5 month old actually did quite a lot to restore my faith in people. Not one person was rude to us. There was not one disgruntled sigh or eyeroll as I walked on the plane with a tiny baby. People were just amazingly kind and considerate. When I squeezed into the window seat next to two men obviously traveling to DC for business, I said, "I swear the baby has been great on all our other flights!" One of them replied,"I don't mind babies. They're just babies. What I do mind is adults who act like babies!" Well said, seatmate.

Now, on to the main feature. I grew up in a house where things were Saved. They were not thrown out. Ever. These things were squirreled away, stacked up in closets, and Saved, because you might need them someday. These things included string, rubber bands, plastic margarine containers, piles of Army-surplus sleeping bags and ammo boxes, canvas tarps, broken watches, and my old t-shirts from highschool. When my parents moved from New Mexico to Idaho almost nine years ago, my mom made a valiant effort to thin out The Stuff, but she came up against a brick wall known as my Super Saver Pack Rat father, and most of The Stuff made its way to Idaho.

Sometimes I'm glad that it did, because gems like this are unearthed from my mother's kitchen cabinets. Behold, THE EGG SCRAMBLER!

Oooohh yes! This is 1970s Only! Available! On! TV! Call! Now! at its very finest. You delicately spear your unscrambled, raw egg on the magical vibrating needle, and it (GET THIS) SCRAMBLES THE EGG IN THE SHELL. Then you just crack the egg into your hot frying pan, and voila! SCRAMBLED EGGS. Because actually cracking the egg into a bowl and using a fork or a whisk or even an egg beater would be far, far too tedious, time consuming, difficult and messy for today's woman. Here's the Egg Scrambler alone in its vaguely Seattle Space Needle glory:

Now, I must confess. It is my fault that the Egg Scrambler entered our household. I was probably five or six years old, the prime age to fall prey to TV offers. I saw this device during afternoon cartoons, and I was mesmerized. Further, I was utterly, irreversibly convinced that my mother absolutely, positively needed this device. And Mother's Day was coming up. I do not know what appalling amount of begging, pleading, wheedling and convincing my poor father was barraged with, but it was enough to get him to order the Egg Scrambler. Which was proudly presented to my mother at breakfast on Mother's Day. And yes, of course we promptly used it to make scrambled eggs. Which were doubtless pronounced THE BEST SCRAMBLED EGGS EVER. And my proud little child self knew the TV commercial had been right.

Aaaand then, the Egg Scrambler went back into its box where it sat for twenty-some-odd years until it was unearthed and moved to Idaho and put away in a cabinet. Where it was unearthed again by my mother at my insistence because I could not believe she still had this thing. Now she can never get rid of it. I think its incredible kitsch value in 2009 has just elevated it to family heirloom status. I think this says it all about my generation : yes, the family heirlooms inherited before were gold watches, maple sideboards, vintage jewelry. My children? They will get THE EGG SCRAMBLER. And their lives will be better for it, see? The Egg Scrambler promises.

(And, incidentally, "Great for camping!" WTF??)

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I have fond memories from my childhood of OUR egg scrambler (a gag gift to my mother from my older sister's boyfriend). I wish I had one now, to show my own daughter. Good times.