Eggs Over Easy

I sincerely believe that moving house should come with a government health warning. The challenges of functioning in a different house have a right to be documented in research as one of the great anxiety provoking happenings of the 21st century, along with births, deaths and marriages. Added to which, coping in rural compared to urban areas, requires a resilience and tolerance of the limitations of technology and infrastructure.

Imagine the scene for a moment. It was day three in our new place in the country. The adults i.e. hubby and I worked hard all day moving furniture, unpacking as many of the 150 boxes as we could while the kids ran around finding homes for their stuff, and playing as many different games as possible outside in the grassy land they now called home.

By 6 pm we were all hungry, tired and hot. With the air conditioner cranked, the kids clamoured for dinner. In the fridge bacon, eggs, bread and tomatoes were all that sat between us and starvation. With little choice, the menu obviously became "breakfast for dinner". So, without any more fuss, bacon and sliced tomatoes sizzled deliciously in the skillet and hubby lovingly fried a few large eggs the old fashioned way in a pan on the stove. To prevent the "greasy spoon" atmosphere, we set the over-the-range-fan to a low roar.

Bacon, of any description, when fried, is hard to ignore. The tantalizing smell encroached on the hedonistic centres of my brain making me a slave to its powerful persuasions, and my stomach growled in anticipation. As the aromas curled around the kitchen, we popped the bread in the toaster. The kids threw cutlery on the table asking every minute was dinner ready yet, but as the hunger grew in our bellies and the anticipation swelled, the power went out.

Hubby, at a crucial point in the over-easy finishing of the eggs, looked at me in panic, as I flipped the tomato slices.

"What happened?" he asked. Although why he thought I would know seemed a bit of a mystery to me.

"I don't know." I admitted as we looked at each other wide-eyed. Had the children not been in ear-shot, "oh crap" would have been the first words from my lips. Staring at the much needed food going slowly cold before me, I cursed the fact that I knew nothing about this home's electrical system and the fact that I had made a career out of health sciences and not home construction seemed a little stupid to me now.

"Perhaps the toaster tripped the fuse." I finally manage to say with some conviction as we both watched the partly cooked food congealing in the pans. "Yes. Of course. That's what happened. I'll be right back." I skipped down the basement stairs feeling all grown up and clever that I knew how to save the day, or at least the eggs. When I got to the scary grey box that I'd learned from the home inspector held a 200 amp fuse from the main hydro grid with enough power to kill me, I took a big breath and opened the circuit breaker panel.

As dust and dead bees dropped at my feet, I stifled a scream in case hubby thought I'd electrocuted myself. After ensuring I was not aggravating a live insect nest, I gazed at the two rows of switches with unintelligible numeration and description beside them. "Oh crap"! I thought for the second time in five minutes, which one do I flip? For those who have a lot more experience with electrics or were blessed with the type of mind that can figure out practical things without a manual, then you will chuckle and say "just like a woman, blond" - insert your own metaphor, however, not being blessed with either of the aforementioned skills, it took me a minute or two to realize that the tripped fuse shows red in the little box beside it. Ah ha! And within seconds of flipping that switch I heard the roar of the fan, and gleeful cries from hubby.

So, our dinner that night was breakfast; the egg yolks had turned hard and the tomatoes were barely brown, and yet it was delicious. A lesson had been learned and we now know that our kitchen, particularly in the corner by the stove, cannot be pushed beyond it's limits, and, if I want to cook eggs to perfection, it is possible that thanks to this summer's blazing "heat dome", I might do a better job on the pathway outside the back door.