thirty eggs later

I was whipping up some scrambled eggs to go with the Thursday open-buffet-at-the-Scotts' night "breakfast for dinner" menu tonight, which consists of biscuits and sausage gravy, scrambled eggs, grapefruit halves, fresh fruit salad, Starbucks and OJ. I had cracked two dozen eggs and whipped them along with some milk into a frothy batter ready for scrambling.

I decided to move them to the back of the counter in case a tiny hand should reach up and grab the bowl dumping it onto the floor. In my haste, I failed to lift my hand high enough to clear the side of the bowl and tipped it over myself. With my Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon-like reflexes I was able to catch and upright the bowl saving about half of the batter. The other half was hopelessly dribbling down the counter and collecting in a jaundiced pool on the floor.

I thought to myself "oh my Lord" (as in the one who created the chicken and the egg from whence my troubles sprang) but my super-problem-solving brain kicked into gear so quickly that I whisked a bendable cutting board underneath the ledge of the counter, scraped about 1/2 cup of egg mixture onto it which I was able to transfer back into the bowl (good thing I keep my counter tops clean enough to eat off of...literally).

Next I removed the gate and whistled Encore over to enjoy a repast of pre-scrambled eggs. He did a fabulous job of cleaning up the floor as I had no idea how I was going to soak all that egg up. I cracked six more eggs into the scramble brew, added another splash of milk, re frothed, and we're good to go. Dinner is saved!