An Egg To Die For

It didn’t feel like the Midwestern Christmas I was used to.  I sat sweltering in my swimsuit, making a list of groceries I would need to start my Christmas baking. 

Shopping in a country like Honduras in 1985 was not like shopping in the USA.  You could never be sure what you would find.  You might find one can of soup or 20 cans of peas. But seldom what you wanted or needed.

One of my first memories of our time in Honduras came on our initial drive from the airport to our new home.  At every corner with a traffic light, a hoard of vendors selling everything from exotic fruit, to plastic hangers and shower curtain rings, would surround our car and yell prices of the items, begging us to buy and bargain with them.

I remember thinking how odd to have someone knocking on my car window to sell me shower curtain rings at a red light.  A few months later, after our possessions had arrived from the states and I began putting our house together, I realized just how pertinent those shower curtain rings being sold on a street corner were.  I should have bought them when I had the opportunity.  For the remainder of our three years in San Pedro Sula our shower curtains were tied to the rod with colorful grosgrain ribbon.  Multiple trips to multiple stores never produced a set of curtain rings in any store or on the street.

Despite the sweltering weather, Christmas was right around the corner and I was determined my boys would have a little piece of home to enjoy.  In our house, Christmas cookies were an important part of the festivities.  It was time for me to start baking.

“Who wants to go to the store?” I asked.  “Me.  Me do,” my two year-old hollered gleefully.  As we ventured out I went through the list in my head: flour, sugar, yeast, eggs, vanilla, were top priority. I could only guess they might have all I needed.  Every trip to the store was a new adventure.

Arriving at the store parking lot (without lines indicating where or how to park) we were bombarded once again by small boys and girls asking for money, food, and selling items for which I was certain I had no use, until I did months later. 

As I went down the aisles, I discovered there were no eggs.  Eggs were not sold in a refrigerated area, nor in cardboard cartons.  They were packaged in plastic bags on the floor in a tall, towering pile to create a mountain in one of the aisles.  The eggs usually had feathers and chicken droppings on them, and they were sold thirteen to a bag which was convenient because you could never get home without at least one cracking open.

Today, however, there were no egg mountains.  In fact, there were no eggs at all.  Now I would have to spend hours in a search-and-find mission; driving around town to various “pulperias” (mom and pop stores) and to the open market.  With each stop I was told the same thing, “no hay huevos.”  There are no eggs.

That week, during a luncheon with other American and European women friends, we all talked about the egg shortage.  One woman opined that the problem was that from September through December it’s the rainy season in the tropics and that chickens lay fewer eggs in the rain.  Another said part of the problem was the flooding that occurs during the rainy season.  The water inundates the poorly maintained roads so the producers couldn’t get the eggs to market.  Actually, the reason did not matter.  As Americans wanting to bake for the holidays, we were all in a dilemma.

During the next few days there was a flurry of phone calls.  “Sarah said she saw eggs on the corner of such and such.”  Each call produced a frantic trip to the specified location only to find the eggs had been sold out. 

Some people who actually found eggs began to hoard them.  Some began to be deceitful.  “No, I haven’t found any eggs,” stated a friend whose son was in my son’s class.  “Really?  Because my son said your son had an egg in his lunch box today!”

Some even became thieves.  I had found a dozen eggs – just enough for the cookies I wanted to bake.  My neighbor, Bev, waited until I left the house, then bullied my maid to loan her a few eggs.  When I returned, the maid was in tears and confessed to having given two eggs away.  She quoted what my ‘friend’ had said to her:  “Dona Tamara said I could borrow a few eggs.  I promise to return them before Christmas.” Bev told her.  My maid had protested a little saying, “But the Dona said not to let anyone have an egg, not even her children, and that I was to guard them with my life.”  However, after a little more bullying my maid had given in and ‘loaned’ Bev two eggs. 

I was furious!  Outraged!  Speechless!  How dare she!  How dare she ‘borrow’ two eggs!  This was war!  Why this was akin to stealing my children.  Maybe worse!

I sat at my kitchen table contemplating the damage done and planned my retaliation. World War III would start over this offense. I tried to reason with myself- “Really Tamara, are two eggs worth the friendship you have with Bev, and the friendship your two children share in school and on weekends. “ I called several friends to cry and whine about the situation. I eventually calmed down, but the situation did put a “crack” in our friendship. Fast forward to 2023. Eggs are outrageously expensive and somewhat scare in areas. So, this story is a warning, do not even think about borrowing an egg from me.  It could start WWIV.

PS. I found this story written a while ago in a box while moving to my new location in Nashville, Tennessee. If you have never walked down Music Row in downtown Nashville now is the time. My door is open, and one can only guess how long until I move on to a new adventure.

My new granddaughter- the real reason I moved to Nashville!