No Use Crying Over Cracked Eggs

I had a great idea last night. Not really a great idea, but a master plan. I was making hardboiled eggs for my breakfasts this week, when I proposed my plan to the Boyfriend.

"If I shake an egg, will it scramble inside and boil that way?"

He looked up from his book, the corners of his mouth curve up ever so slightly in a smirk. "No, it's all liquid inside..."

Too late, I was shaking, bobbing, jumping...doing everything I could to get that raw egg scrambled.

I'd shaken it for what I considered to be far longer than it should have taken to merge the white and yolk, so I went for a Sharpie. I felt it necessary to mark which egg I'd experimented on. As I reached across my desk, I felt the very beginnings of what was to be a tragic accident. The slippery and cool shell slid from my hand and through the space between my hand and the floor.

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Yes. The egg splatted onto my grandmother's red Oriental rug. Sad. I wiped it up and used carpet cleaner and it came up just fine. But the test of science had come to an end (I very much appreciated that through his laughter, the Boyfriend never said "I told you so", he was too busy trying to express how adorable he thinks I am...I'm so glad we found each other).

In conclusion: That yolk was completely intact on that rug.