I'm very sorry, everyone

For the dearth in posting. Some urgent matters have come a'calling, but I soon do hope to post something on dips you can bring out for the family over the long Christmas-New Year stretch.

But first, I must tell you somethng that will possibly make you sick, so don't read this if you're about to eat.

Do you remember the year old egg? The picture is reproduced here for your viewing pleasure. It looks deceivingly fresh, but its looks are a lie. This egg was left in the fridge for about 11 months. My father forgot them the last time he was in Perth, and when we opened the fridge door in the Perth home 11 months later, we found a row of eggs. Very old, but oddly smell-free, eggs.



I remember telling my father all about salmonella. About how leaving a cracked egg in the fridge could leave you gut-stricken for days on end. I remember him nodding thoughtfully, saying oh yes, we should throw these eggs away shouldn't we. He promptly exited the house and made a trip down to the store for some fresh, free range eggs. "Why free range, dad? I thought you never believed in the organic free-range thing." "Why, for my daughter of course." And he smiled benevolently.

The next morning, my dad cracked a few free range eggs and served up scrambled eggs. Perhaps it was the fresh air and the holiday mood that had descended upon me, but I thought they were wonderful. I paid him the compliments, and he smiled. Benevolently, once again.

My father revealed two days ago that when I wasn't looking, he had slipped in the year-old egg. You see, he explained, the fridge kept them rot-free. And anyway, it was just one, he said. AND, he added, I didn't see you running to the toilet, innit?

I didn't. So I am still considering if I should, perhaps, one day slip some cream into his scrambled eggs. He hates cream in his scrambled eggs. And then I'll tell him, after he pays his compliements, that ah hah! They had cream in them. You didn't know that, did you?

But I suspect he'll laugh about it. He wouldn't feel ill, as I suppose you might be feeling now. So I suppose all I can do, would be to whine and moan to him about it till the cows come home and enter their sheds and lay on their bedding. But come Sunday, I'll slip double cream in his scrambled eggs, and maybe add a dash of milk. And I'll laugh maniacally and go to bed feeling satisfied with my sad little effort to exact vengeance on my father's risk-taking effort upon my gut.