It’s a little known fact that I love deviled eggs. I have no idea why I find them so delectable and delicious, but I do. Is it the hard boiled whites of the eggs that draw me in? Is it the yolk that's mixed with all sorts of bad for me yummy things like mayonnaise? Is it the paprika sprinkled on the top that’s just the perfect accent to this perfect creation? I don’t know. Perhaps it’s all these things together. In any event, last night was the first time that the universe conspired to make me make deviled eggs. Normally, you won’t find me much in the kitchen. It’s typically Josh making Chicken Coconut Curry (as he made tonight) or salmon with honey dijon mustard (as I hope he’ll make again soon) and me watching and cheering and getting in the way. Last night, however, a couple things happened: 1) Josh was super tired and 2) we had about two dozen eggs left over from a breakfast we meant to make when our friends were in town but didn’t. When I asked Josh what he felt like for dinner, he said sleepily, “Well, we should probably use those eggs,” and then turned over and closed his eyes. I was on my own with two dozen eggs. Don’t panic, Greason. I think: quiche! Eggs and whatever you can find in the fridge that goes with eggs: that seems like something I can manage. Put it all in a frozen pie crust, put in oven. That’s within my culinary skills. Ah, but pie crusts are hard to come by in Dubai, so I decide to make a quiche without a crust…perhaps a glorified omelette? And this creation seems like it will be decent as I put it in the oven, but I still have a dozen eggs taunting me. Twelve little devils. Wait: Did someone say “devils” and am I looking at eggs? Could I? It’s pushing my skills in the kitchen, I know. The people who make deviled eggs are women with much more culinary expertise and patience in the kitchen than I: Josh’s aunt, Natalie’s mom, people who are organized enough to bring something homemade to a get-together. God, how I admire those people who don’t secretly hope to be asked to bring cheese and crackers or drinks or (best of all) a loaf of bread to a gathering. It’s now or never, Liz. No excuses. No “making-deviled-eggs-is-something-other-people-do” crap. Liz Greason vs. 12 eggs. When I begin, I’m not sure who will win. But praise Buddha, I find a website called (I’m SO not joking) www.deviled eggs.com. Now, the woman who created this site is a freaking genius. She starts from boiling the water and uses non-condescending language such as, “For those who want to improve or perfect their egg-boiling and peeling techniques, read on.” As one who would like to improve her egg boiling technique, I WILL read on, thankyouverymuch. And, bless her heart, she guides me all the way from boiling water to scooping blobs of yolk mixed with mayonnaise and mustard and spices into those (slightly misshapen) eggs whites cut lengthwise. Now, they weren’t as good as Josh’s aunt’s deviled eggs or Natalie’s mom's, but by God, they weren’t bad. They were so NOT bad, in fact, that I ate almost all twelve of them in celebration of my accomplishment. Moderation: when will I ever learn? One thing at a time, I suppose.