How do you like your eggs? Oh dear, clumsy me...

Well I can tell you that it doesn't really matter how you like your eggs because if you come to my house and I make you breakfast (brunch more likely) you are going to get your eggs cooked over easy in a little smidge of real unsalted butter and laid lovingly to rest upon slices of toasted 9 grain bread. If you play your cards right Buster I will sprinkle your eggs with imported fancy-schmancy French sea salt and fresh ground pepper.

I have perfected eggs on toast and maybe it's gone to my head a bit.

You know I was ready to leave this post - just like this. Don't the eggs I cooked today look great and there you go. A simple post about my cooking. But as I added the photo above I realized that although my eggs on toast are indeed perfect and splendid to behold, the hideous dish they are laid upon is one of my least favorite things in the entire world.

There aren't that many left in the set, but man do I hate those dishes and not only because they are so very ugly - Look at ME! screams the pattern - I'm a confetti filled fiesta! OLE! - but also a wee amount because they were a wedding gift from MDH's previous marriage. He got the dishes in the divorce.

Sometimes people who have known MDH and me for years are shocked to learn that he was married before me. He has always been very low-key about it.

I could almost forget about it too were it not for having to look at that butt ugly set of dishes glaring at me from the cupboard every day alongside some equally repugnant chrystal goblets and assorted gravy boat gew-gaws selected from the bridal registry at a swanky department store in 1992.

Once, a few years ago before our big move to Michigan, I suggested that we downsize and pack these things up and give them to charity and he had a fit. He lived with these sparkling gems for many years during his life as "divorced guy" and to him they are sentimental. Not because they were wedding gifts, but because they represent the only time in his life that he ever really lived on his own.

The morning after the first night we spent together at his apartment he served me orange juice in a brass-rimmed chrystal champagne flute with an etched stem. I thought - either this guy is divorced or I have just had sex with Christopher Lowell.

Anyhoo... I put up with these ugly ass dishes and the ridiculously ostentatious stemware because I love the big mug (so to speak). I never want to be one of those wives that makes her husband throw away of all of his stuff just because it doesn't suit her tastes, like Carrie Fisher and Bruno Kirby in that scene with the wagon wheel coffee table in When Harry Met Sally. I never want to be like that.

S'alls I'm saying is that sometimes my hands are slippery and accidents do happen.