Eggs Jenedict.

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, I went out for brunch with a group of friends.
Okay, let’s be honest: in this case, brunch = breakfast at 2 pm.

We went to the restaurant (all 14 of us), patiently waited for our table(s), sat down, and went through the menu.

One by one, we all placed our orders. Our waitress, a rather unsmiling and wouldn’t-let-us-sneak-in-some-Starbucks lady, seemed like she was having a bit of a rough day. I mean, even if you were having a great day, the sudden arrival of 14 hungry young people would make me stress a little too.

So when it came my turn to order, I thought I’d give her something to laugh about.

You see, a few of my friends (including a guy named Ben), decided today was an Eggs Benedict sort of day. You know, one of those “I just want some meat and cream sauce and cheese on top of egg and muffin” sort of days. Because Eggs Benedict tastes like deliciousness and comfort and home and a cloud of delight as you run through a sprinkler on a warm summer day.

Eggs Benedict days are good days. Even better days when you get the good places that serve them with bacon instead of ham, and somehow make them even more delicious than they could possibly be.

As I was thinking of what to order, I thought to myself…

“You know what would make this day even better? If it was an Eggs Jenedict day.”


Eggs Jenedict.

Like Eggs Benedict (which Ben ordered), but even better! Because it’s made specially for people like me!

I giggled to myself. I chuckled. And then, I cracked up (get it? cracked up? heehee. insert pathetic pun groan here) and shared my ingenious plan with the others, who laughed along with me and told me they’d never let me live it down if I didn’t.

So, as the waitress came around, I put my finger on the picture of deliciousness covered in Hollandaise, and told the lady…

“I’ll have the Eggs Jenedict, please. ‘Cause my name is Jenn. (chuckle). Get it?”

She stood there, pen poised over grease-stained pad, absorbing my words.

She stood still, posture stiff and unrelenting.

Like a statue.

A stone.

A resolute pillar against the waves of joy and gladness.

A rebel against the humor movement.

She didn’t laugh.

Her eyes didn’t twinkle.

She didn’t even crack the tiniest of grins.

Instead, with one sentence she crushed all my dreams of becoming a comedian.

“You mean the Eggs Benedict?”


Guess I can’t win ’em all.

PS: Thanks to Allyson for suggesting this blog post. I’d almost forgotten about this all those months ago until you and Yvonne reminded me. Such keen minds, you two. ;)


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