The Refrigerator Farted, or “Who Farted in the Refrigerator?”

Taken from the application form for Dartmouth College:

Mickey Mouse farted and said:
A. “Excuse me.”
B. “Ooops.”
C. “Pluto!  What have you done?”
Choose one, in less than 100 words explain your answer.

Fart.  So, where do we begin?  The word traces its origins, first to Middle English ferten, farten and then to Old High German Ferzan… to break wind.  Meaning, that the roots of the present word were well established before William “conquered” England and brought Norman French as a layer to our present tongue.  The French equivalent did not exist in 1066, so the linguistic work-around back then fashioned the term best translated as, “what Saxon slobs do”. Thankfully that term, no longer in use, is lost to the dustbins of history.

But etymology is not why we are here today.  Rather it is about hard cooked (boiled?) eggs.  Clearly, bringing water to boil & plopping in a few eggs seems simple enough.  Why worry?  If it was that easy then why are there so many tips on the internet detailing the best way to make hard boiled eggs?  So? It ain’t all that easy!  Witness Sandy, who has successfully prepared countless hard boiled eggs for my enjoyment.  But, and this is the tragedy, there are those times (infrequent to be sure), when an egg bursts its shell in the hot water bath and Sandy is forlorn with grief.  As am I. 

We proceed to last evening’s egg prep.  After cooling, Sandy consigned the clutch of hard cooked eggs (including a ruptured-shell egg) to the fridge, and placed them carefully into a re-purposed plastic egg crate. But then the egg that burst thru its shell was free to release its distinctive perfume.  A scent that clearly would bring to mind the worst SBD you had ever encountered. Later that evening (and not prepared to meet the consequences of the egg mishap), I was just hitting the fridge for a glass of cold OJ… I opened the door and felt my knees buckle under the weight of the ultimate “silent but deadly” fart. 

Quickly closed the door.  It was of no use.  My nostril hairs were already singed. Damage done.  Thankfully, concern that my just acquired sliced mortadella might have been contaminated proved unnecessary.  The contents of the fridge withstood the blast, even if I was emotionally shaken.

Seen below, the suspect egg in the fridge, ready to cut loose!

My man frog, Richard Parker, prepared a light refreshment to go with my superbly assembled Tanqueray Martini: sliced egg with a drizzle of Russian dressing.

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