This is a story about the special bond between a father (Phil) and a daughter (me). At first glance, this seems to be a wholesome family photo, yes? After you’re done pointing and snickering at Phil’s creepy porn ‘stache and his signature Boyd oversized glasses, keep this image of Phil in mind as I take you on a trip down memory lane.We haven’t mentioned this until now, but Phil is an incredibly well-learned man (our intelligence had to come from somewhere). The man holds two degrees—one in Business and one in Theology—not to mention an honorary degree from the School of Hard Knocks. An avid learner, Phil even converts television time into an educational experience. On any given night, he can be found critiquing the History Channel’s interpretation of a biblical event, or yelling at Alex Trebek on Jeopardy. Phil is also a voracious reader. Traditionally, Phil has gravitated toward magazines or publications containing miscellaneous facts and stories (he’s a huge fan of Reader’s Digest) that he can later incorporate into conversations with unsuspecting strangers (or us, if we got cornered). If there is one negative aspect of Phil’s self-education, it is that all of the little nuggets of information he acquires throughout the day often got jumbled together. For example, Phil might read an article about President Obama’s recent healthcare research trip to Brussels in U.S. News & World Report. At some point between the time Phil reads this article, opens his email account, and sends his account of the story to me and my siblings, the content of the article morphs into a matter-of-fact statement that Obama is the worst president ever because he plans to withhold healthcare to anyone who will not consume brussel sprouts. This claim will invariably be met with skepticism, and one of us will ask Phil where he got this information. Phil then gives his standard response, steadfastly announcing that he “read it in a magazine.” When pressed to reveal which magazine, Phil says his age is getting the best of him, that he can’t recall the magazine, but refuses to retreat from his position and the argument continues until I give up.
I don’t mind telling you that, as a young girl, I was not privy to the fact that Phil’s anecdotes were not error-proof. Rather, I recall being consistently impressed by his uncanny ability to recall dates and facts about our great world. That all changed on the day of the Egg Incident. On a Wednesday night in church, AWANA* to be more specific (AWANA = Christian version of boy and girl scouts wherein eager young children learn the tools of spiritual survival, as opposed to wilderness or suburban survival skills), we were given an assignment: we were to learn father/daughter teamwork skills by baking a dessert with our Dads. That night I went home and excitedly told Phil about our assignment. Almost immediately, I conjured up an image of the 17-layer cake that we would effortlessly bake, decorate and bring to church the next week. We’d unveil our creation with a pretense of humility and attribute our feat solely to our synergy (while also giving credit to The Lord). Sadly, Phil did not share my delusions of grandeur, and, in an effort to get back to his translation of the Old Testament in Hebrew, he agreed to participate, but unilaterally decided we should make brownies. From a box.
Dejected, I sullenly watched Phil read the instructions on the box, but I immediately perked up when he told me I could spray the pan myself and crack the eggs into the bowl. Right as I reached for an egg in the carton, Phil stopped me and said, “You know, this egg reminds me of something I read in a magazine once.” Having not yet learned to be wary of Phil's “all-knowing” factoids, I excitedly asked him to expound. Phil then confidently informed me that an uncooked egg would never break unless it was actually dropped on something. Even at a young age, this statement seemed implausible to me. Doubtless sensing my disbelief, Phil hastily attempted to buttress his claim by explaining that the egg’s domed exterior made it one of nature’s architectural marvels, such that one could not crush the egg between one’s fingers. Though a large part of me still felt that Phil’s logic didn’t add up, I watched with rapt attention through my large and somewhat smeared glasses as he positioned the egg between his thumb and pointer finger. The egg shook as Phil applied more and more pressure to its shell, and his hand began to wobble as he inched closer and closer to my face. With each passing half-second, Phil grew more confident in his hypothesis. Just as I was about to become a believer in Phil’s bionic egg theory, the egg spontaneously combusted and a shower of yolk and crud rained down my face, hair, and glasses. The egg explosion was quickly supplanted by a look of surprise in Phil's face, followed by his devolution into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Loud, uproarious, unfettered laughter. As Phil lost his composure, I, too, was losing mine. Completely blind to the humor of the situation, I felt my overgrown body swell with rage as the cold egg yolk dribbled down my neck and onto my favorite hand-me-down bible camp sweatshirt. Phil half—no, quarter—heartedly attempted to offer an apology while I tore through the house screaming for my siblings to tell Syl to help me get the rapidly drying/crusty yolk out of my sweatshirt, scalp, and glasses.
Needless to say, The Egg incident was the first and last Father/Daughter baking experience we shared and the beginning of the “Doubt Everything Phil Says” movement. I have no idea where the idiom “egg on your face” came from, but a friend told me that it started out as a comment one might make to a fellow diner who had poor manners or, was a sloppy eater—one who, perhaps had left egg crusties around one’s mouth. In a perfect world, Phil would have been the one to get egg on his face. Yet, as you all should know by now, life isn’t fair (hello? Powdered milk? Frozen sandwiches?), especially if you’re a sucker like me. Combust a raw egg on my face, shame on Phil. Believe anything Phil says after that, shame on me.
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