Living in the Doublewide Fridge… is Hectic.
From the desk of EnoggEggbert
We love our Bedlam fridge house. It’s our home and a food storage locker for the humanz. We share.
Soft cushy, cozy egg cartons
At night we sleep in our egg cartons. It’s pretty lovely. Eggbert insists we buy recycled cardboard. I’ve noticed it adds softness for peaceful egg-bed dreaming, even if it smells kind of funny. Eggbert respects ecology and takes the proper steps to lower his carbon footprint.
His is relatively tiny, so I’m never sure what he goes on about. It’s like an ant becoming carbon neutral. But Eggbert says we all have to be conscientious of our world. He buys organic food and is mindful of his recycles.
Hey, I recycle even if I don’t bother to break down the boxes into smaller bits, as Eggbert insists. The cardboard eventually gets in a bin, even if I can’t remember what goes where. When rushing, I may feel a tad guilty when my gum wrapper gets tossed in the wrong recycle can.
I figure I’m doing my part by not flinging my gum onto the sidewalk. I curse when others are careless, and a gob sticks to my favorite red Prada pumps. That’s enough of recycle jabber for one day.
Why not green poop?
Since Eggbert read Sir Albert Howard’s book, “An Agricultural Testament,” published in 1940, he’s been fussy about egg carton sustainability.
Eggbert claims Sir Albert laid (I’m very fond of this word) out the principles of organic farming and emphasized the importance of maintaining soil fertility through compost, green manures, and crop rotations. Green manures have always fascinated me.
Why doesn’t poop come out green when it goes in green? A free-range cow, for instance, wanders the pasture and chomps on green grass. Why aren’t the pellets leaving her backside coming out green too?
Sir Albert’s book does not address this ambiguity in his green manure instructions.
Recycle roots
Eggbert is prostrating – prayer shawl and all, hoping for Sir Albert’s sustainable living blessings. He tells me Sir Albert invented the idea. He’s the man that deserves all the credit. And then, the California farmers came along and did a wonderful job advancing his ideas.
I’m pretty sure California farmers are too busy to stick their noses in Sir Albert’s book written in the 1940s. Undoubtedly the book is not even popular enough to show up on Kindle. Certainly, it’s not a happening book on Audible.
Then I told Eggbert that the principles of organic farming had been around for centuries, with many indigenous cultures practicing sustainable agricultural techniques long before Sir Albert-dingle-berry came along.
Chocolate chip cookie bake-off
He was incredulous. But with a calm blink of his green eyes and a shrug of his egg shoulders, he resumed baking, sliding a new batch of chocolate chip cookies into the oven.
Annoyance with Eggbert’s hero worship made me cranky. I’m pretty sure Native Americans were the true architects of sustainable farming long before white menz came along to swipe their lands.
I’m on a tangent now, and Eggbert’s ignoring me and singing a little song that annoys me even more.
Eggbert’s Hummingbird (so annoying)
There’s a small bird, oh so small
Flaps its wings and looks like a ball.
With a long beak and feather’s bright
You fly backwards, not even in frightChorus
Hummmmingbird oh hummingbird
You’re the flash that’s quietly heardVerse 2
You hover in the air
And zip here and there
You’re wings in a blur
Sightly causing any stirChorus
Hummmmingbird oh hummingbird
You’re definitely in Eggbert’s herdVerse 3
I’m sure your nectar is spiced rum
It’s what makes you hum, hum hum
Dodging Enogg’s discarded gum
Stuck on sidewalks like big fat plumbsEnding (thank the heavens)
So when you notice a hummingbird
Just remember it’s in Eggbert’s herd
And amongst his tiny flock oh-so-sweet
It makes the world a yummy treat!Delicious as your life can be
You’re a delight for all to seeThank God you’re free from Enogg’s gum.
Such a disrcetion she keeps mum.
I do not spit gum out!
He sings his dinky ryhme offkey. The sidewalk gum accusation froths my insides.
So I waggle around the counter, snag his spatula, clumped with tempting chunks of chocolate chip cookie dough, which I try to ignore and point it menacingly in his direction.
“Look, Eggbert, you hero-worshipping egg-noramous, don’t pretend what I’m saying is unimportant. White menz stole Native American lands, and your Sir Wallybutt took credit for sustainable farming.
Then he said, “You use too many words, Enogg. I can’t keep up with your latest peeve.”
Did he just say that to me? And did he just divulge that I spit gum on sidewalks in his ridiculous tune? Now I’m furious. It’s not so much that I need to be right. Well, that’s in there. I’m pissed that little Mr. Majestic Egg is not acknowledging what I’m saying. His gum-spitting squeal needs no further comments. Any pushback makes me look guilty.
He’s not listening, is the point
And he’s not listening. He’s singing! And lying.
I move closer, jabbing my ominous chocolate chip cookie dough spatula closer to his face. He nips a chunk of the cookie dough, smiles at his smooshy treat, and chuckles.
“Don’t you get it, darling Enogg?” He looks at me with those innocent green eyes holding zero malice. How does he do that?
I pause. “What do you mean?” I say, only a little guarded. My shoulders are still up. Yes, we eggs have shoulders, so don’t YOU humanz start. I’m still pissy.
I didn’t see this one coming
“There’s no way there’s ever been a true, and I mean proper restitution for the land grab.” Government stipends don’t count. I jab the spatula at him again.
“Honey babe, he patiently says. My sweetest.” He can be charming; oh yes, he can. “The indigenous peoples receive their deserved retribution for the theft of their land. They happily deliver comeuppance restitution.”
“Oh really? How so?” I ask only a little argumentatively because I’m beginning to forget what we’re bickering about. I also have no idea what he’s saying, but I refuse to admit that one.
“While nothing can ever repay our glorious indigenous folks for the enormous wrong, there is something ironically helping them. Sure, it’s nowhere near proper penance, but something is happening that has a sprinkle of good in it. And you help. You help A LOT”, said Eggbert.
Then he adds, “Maybe it’s more like a right-sizing.”
And my purse helps!
“What can you possibly mean, Eggbert? How are Indigenous people being paid back? How the hell am I helping?”
“First of all, I agree, nothing, will ever make it right. Plain and simple,” says Eggbert.
“OK, so why do I think there’s more sloshing around in your little egg brain?”
“Well, Enogg, our honorable, wonderful, amazing native Americans are racking in plenty of white manz dough at their casinos across the U.S. The house always has the advantage. They’ve even dipped into your enormous purse, my love, he says with a wink. Who winks these days, for cripes sake?
I gape in realization but regain my composure. “Seems all wrong, and I don’t do purses,” I sneer. But he does have a point, even if his head covers it.
Then he sticks his annoying index finger in the bowl, scoops cookie dough, and pops it into his mouth.
I’m pretty sure I threw the spatula at him.
