Feeling Sheepish?

           We all know moths lay eggs on your wool clothing, and then their larvae hatch and eat holes in your clothes, right? 

So… enquiring mind here… why aren’t there clouds of moths over every herd of sheep?  I mean, that’s where there’s a surplus of wool, right?

          I know you’ve been wondering the same thing, so I researched it for you, and here’s the skinny: A moth can be carrying 200 eggs, but she’ll only leave them in motionless places. Sheep, though slow, are on the move. 

Turns out moth larvae (who also eat silk, cotton, angora, and other fibers which contain keratin) like their dinners undisturbed.

          So, in addition to keeping your wool sweaters scrupulously clean, you should wear them often. I don’t know about you, but this makes me picture people wearing layers of sweaters, just to prevent egg-hatching.

Or, since larvae like wool clothes that are kept in drawers and closets where it’s dark and still, should we display our wool items near a sunny window, and riffle through them a few times a day?? 

My final advice is simply to store your sweaters in the freezer, which will kill any sneaky eggs. Now, if you still want to know more fascinating facts about sheep, I wrote a blog about them here.

And another blog about actually SHEARING one, here.

I also show you how to fold and store your sweaters here, in one of my short Youtube Mom life hack videos. So many places to click!

Call Me Crazy

          I think we’re all crazy.  I mean, a little bit.  For example, I have several friends who are afraid of irrational things, all of which can be traced to their childhoods. Here are just two:

          One of my friends is scared of eggs, because her big brother told her these are actually forms of chicken poop.

          Another one is scared of snakes to the point that she can’t even see a photo of one without getting hysterical (again, older brothers may be thanked for this neurosis). Here's a fake one, in case she's reading this:

          One is scared to sleep with her ears uncovered lest something creepy crawl into them (scary movies seen at a tender age are the culprit here).

          I am personally scared of cherry tomatoes.  Not seeing them or growing them, but eating them. I am convinced they will explode in my mouth and shoot tomato juice down my windpipe and choke me.  Even worse, this fear is confirmed by several people who’ve said, “I’ve had that happen!” This does not argue in favor of forsaking my phobia.

          Add to this every newly-labeled condition that comes down the windpipe, I mean pike. Someone who’s simply tidy thinks she has OCD.  Someone who tends to worry now describes herself as having Anxiety Disorder. People with messy houses think they’re Hoarders.  And a person who rightfully shouldn’t trust a crook now wonders if they have Trust Issues.

          I am first to agree that the whole world could benefit from therapy, but I think we need to stop collecting alphabetical letters that excuse our nutty behavior.  Let’s just agree that we’re all bent in some way—or several ways-- and admire the artwork of it all.  See? Doesn’t that take a load off your mind?

          Have you read Sisters in the Mix yet?  It’s about two crazy sisters who can’t stand one another. Find that comedy novel and more, right here.

It's Eggzasperating!

          Hang onto your egg baskets, folks.  It would be illegal to sell an American egg in most other countries.

This is because we sell washed eggs and they do not. Nor do they refrigerate them.  I know, it’s an (egg)shell shock. But to England, most of Europe and Asia, and pretty much the rest of the world, we are the weird ones.

 Here’s the poop, quite literally, on eggs:  When an egg has a bit of chicken poop on it, and maybe even some feathers, they just take it home. Maybe they brush it off, maybe they actually wash it, but they don’t gasp in horror the way we would.

          In the U.S., Japan, and Scandinavia, farmers give eggs a bath and shampoo and then a thorough drying.  Then we chill the eggs, and sell sparkling clean beauties to people who take them home and put them in the refrigerator where they keep more than twice as long as the unchilled ones. 

Elsewhere, they sell them at room temperature and store them at home the same way. How can that be safe, you ask?  Well, here’s the deal.  Our machines that wash the eggs and remove the chicken doo, also remove a thin coating that keeps bacteria out. So we spray the eggs with oil and chill them, which then keeps germs away. We also go through a bunch of other safety steps. 

But this seems like a lot of work and expense in some countries, so they don’t do it.  Also, not everyone has big refrigerators. 

How do they prevent salmonella? In Great Britain and some other countries, they vaccinate hens against it, which we do not, since we do all that other stuff.

So you can choose to wash and then chill eggs, like we do here, or go the other route and don’t wash and don’t chill them.  But you can’t leave a washed egg out at room temperature, because it will start to sweat, and  moisture can transport bacteria into the egg.  Also mold.  So if you buy a refrigerated egg at the market, take it home and just chill, baby.

Which method is best?  Both seem to work.  It seems to be a perfect eggsample of agreeing to disagree.  And I say bring on the Benedicts, the omelettes, the quiches and cakes. What’s a little diseggreement between friends?

And speaking of friends, be a pal and buy my books here.  You can also watch me discover a double yolk on one of my YouTube Mom videos here. 

Eggstravaganza

            There’s something about dying Easter eggs that brings out the comedian in my family.  Make that five comedians.  Between the four kids and St. Bob (really the fifth child), it’s a competition to see who can create the most hilarious egg.

            I, on the other hand (the truly saintly mom, of course), want this to be a reminder of Spring, and of New Life, and Christ’s Resurrection after all, and thus I color my eggs in properly dainty pastels, neatly striped and artistically swirled.  Fat rubber bands block out areas of the egg not to be dyed, and when removed, they reveal an easy two-tone  stripe.  Rubber cement does the same thing, only in curves and brush strokes, reminding me that I am just like Martha Stewart, minus the prison time.

            I’m also a huge fan of dying eggs with silk neckties, and if you want to see how to transfer those patterns to your own eggs, click here.

            My children, on the other hand, think it’s funny to sketch a knife on the egg, then paint blood oozing from a crack they drew with a Sharpie.  Brandon takes delight in painting his eggs camouflage, thus rendering them completely invisible for the outdoor egg hunt.  One year they competed for most disgusting color.  It was a brownish algae hue, as I recall.

            Cassidy forgets the iron etiquette rule of dying, namely Thou Shalt Not Dip the Purple Spoon Into the Yellow Cup, and within minutes, all the cups contain a gray liquid resembling Thai meatball soup.

            Nicole, at thirteen, could apply makeup to her eggs better than a makeup artist, creating faces complete with blush and eyeliner.  Nobody but me cringed when those same eggs were later cracked and peeled, an eery experience once I’d gotten used to the new “people.”

Richie invented a new technique a few years ago, and none of us have been able to copy him so far.  He somehow spins the egg on one end so fast, that he can hold out a soft-tip marker, and make dozens of skinny lines in one continuous spiral.  Of course, he uses ink that smears when it gets wet.  And, naturally, grass is wet.  So any kid who picks up this egg is in for a permanent surprise.

            Bob, who likes to keep his shirt clean, is the most reluctant participant in this dye-splashing, egg-cracking eggstravaganza.  He always chooses one egg, and one egg only, then takes his time to drizzle colors exactly where he wants them.  His egg looks like a Monet pond and lily pads, reflecting irises conveniently scattered near the banks.  

The rest of our eggs suddenly look like the result of a game for psychotics who were blindfolded and told to paint their problems. 

Finally the deed is done, and it’s time to fight over who gets to empty out which dye cup into the sink, to ooh and aah over the gross combinations swirling down the drain.  Newspaper that looks like modern art is gathered up and tossed, and new stains are discovered on everyone’s clothes.  Eggs are stored in the refrigerator for the Easter Bunny to discover during the night.  Somehow, we all go to bed smiling, our fingertips odd shades of blue and orange, our kitchen smelling of sulfur and vinegar, and cellophane grass stuffed into all our baskets, awaiting Peeps and chocolate Bunnies.  And we know it’s Easter once again.

It may be too late to order my books for your Easter baskets, but Mother’s Day is coming up, so hie thee to this link, and your shopping will be done!