The Egg-tervention

Grampy is a hoarder. A food hoarder. No. I'm serious as a heart attack. His kitchen and spare room look like a Doomsday Prepper has settled in and lives there. From non-perishable food to water and cleaning supplies, he is sure 'nuff prepped. And yes, God help us all, he even owns a firearm. Luckily Mike found and confiscated all his bullets and had the firing pin removed, but he can still shake his shotgun at his cranky neighbor and we've been called twice now by the manager of the trailer park, threatening to toss him out on his sorry hiney....but I digress.

His freezer boasts 20 packages of hot dogs and even more packages of bologna. Old mayonnaise jars full of beef stew and some other unrecognizable entree are stacked neatly on the top rack while the bottom rack holds mostly bags and bags of english muffins and bacon.

But the hoarding substance that worries us the most is his aresenal of eggs. He called me a month ago complaining that he needed to get to the store because they had a sale on eggs and he's getting low. Grampy eats four eggs on english muffins every morning. Sometimes he throws some fried bologna and processed cheese on the whole mess. Or he scrambles them with bacon and hashbrowns, or makes an omelet. He does love him some eggs. Now the fact that he's going on 88 years old and has eaten like that for most of his adult life should give the American Heart Association pause. At the very least they should re-think the whole cholesterol scam and get off our meat and cheese-eating butts. Again...I digress.

Mike arranged them in order of expiration

So Grampy calls me....needing eggs, right? I go on over. Far be it from me to deny the man one of the few pleasures he has left in life...eating too much fat and cholesterol-ridden food. I find him firmly ensconced in front of the TV finishing his 12^th cup of coffee of the morning and I shout “Hi Dad. I'm going for your eggs!” He nods at me as I grab the coupons off his kitchen table and on the way out the door he hollers at me with instructions to get 8 dozen...the limit on eggs for 99 cents. I halt in my tracks and back up to the kitchen. “What?” I say “8 DOZEN?” That's (and I quickly do the math on my fingers) 96 eggs for crying out loud! Why in the world do you need that many eggs all at one time? It's not like the stores are closing down tomorrow!” He's clearly disgusted with me and simply states “Because they're ON SALE! And the sale ends Tuesday!” At that I reach over to his refrigerator and pull open the door, saying “Do you even have room in here for 8 dozen...what the heck?!” Much to my amazement there were 12 dozen eggs in there already (see photo above), neatly stacked along the right side of the fridge and patiently awaiting their fate. “Dad! You have 12 dozen in here already! I can't even do the math for how many eggs that is and you want to add 8 dozen MORE?!” He was non-plussed, gave me his most sincere stink-eye, repeated slowly “THEY. ARE. ON. SALE!”....and wandered off down the hall muttering to “mama” about not being able to drive anymore and what the hell is he supposed to do when all he wants are a few eggs. “Mama” of course, is his late wife, my mother in law, with whom he holds an ongoing conversation all day. Mostly they talk about their dead dog, Mugsy, and the lousy weather but I have many memories of their lively shouting matches when she was still alive and I think he enjoys her more now that she's passed...she doesn't talk back. But again, I digress. As I headed toward the door to go shopping, I could feel the sting of her own post-mortem disapproval aimed at me, so I did the only thing I could. I called my husband, Grampy's son and passed it off on him.

Eating breakfast, Grampy explains why he needs more eggs.

Mike is Grampy's warden as well as his savior. Without his son, Mike, Grampy would be in a world of hurt. Heck, Grampy would be in a nursing home griping at the indifferent staff and tripping innocent little old ladies walking down the hallways in their blue robes and frizzled pink hair. Mike is made of sterner stuff than I am and immediately asked me to hand the phone to his dad. He patiently explained to his dad about the expiration dates on egg cartons and told Tex there would be no more eggs until he ate most of what he already had. Grampy hung up the phone crest-fallen. Defeated. It broke my heart. I left the house and came back an hour later with four dozen eggs...a compromise, a peace offering, a gesture of my affection. (shhh....don't tell Mike) He was asleep in his recliner. An almost-empty plate of scrambled eggs on his lap, a bit of egg-goo stuck to his bottom lip and a smile of pure bliss on his face.

Who am I to stand between an old man and his love of breakfast?