Aug 27 2014
The other day, Cayden came home in a gloomy mood. I tried to cheer him up with offerings of pizza and unfettered TV use. How about the Ipad?
Nothing worked until I opened the fridge and checked the battered carton on the top shelf. “Want to do the egg tree?”
The egg tree. No relation to the cat tree.
I don’t remember when I hatched (groan) this plan. It was probably about 6 months ago. As faithful readers know, our kind neighbors keep us well stocked in eggs. One day I came upon a few cracked ones — which must be discarded — and just before I trashed them, I thought about smashing them.
Tossing them in the trash seemed wasteful. Plus, I wanted to egg something.
I considered an appropriate target. Some place where splattered yolks would be inconsequential. Where the wildlife would clean up the mess.
And along the driveway there’s a small cluster of junk trees. Surrounded by a no man’s land swath of grass. Ideal targets.
That first day I ushered the kids to the trees and invited them to commence throwing. Like soldiers in a firing squad, they lined up and took aim. (The actual egg tree is a particularly skinny and crooked little tree; perhaps they chose it for the added challenge). The kids were thrilled when they struck their target. When they missed, some of the eggs would survive and make it to the next round.
Since the first egging, I’ve taken to saving up the cracked ones until we’ve got a few. Hurling them is a great stress reliever.
If there’s a more practical use for inedible eggs — a viable method to recycle them — I don’t want to know about it.
Pitching them at a tree is much more fun.