The ROOST

During The Dark Ages before the internet …

A short Creamed Eggs back story …

It was 1978, during my freshman year at The Fortress, one morning at breakfast in the dining hall I was presented with this steaming gelatinous yellow blob and told it was “creamed eggs.”

Never heard of eggs being creamed. Boiled. Fried. Scrambled. Blended in milkshakes. Yes. But creamed? No.

Cautiously, like I was defusing an unexploded bomb, I used my battered fork to explore the outer regions of this creamed mess. It clung to the fork. It smelled vaguely of chicken. There were bits and bobs that could have been actual meat at some point and time — but I recognized nothing.

I know what cream is. I know what eggs are.

On my divided plastic tray there were grits. I know grits. Salt, pepper, butter and —

“Eat them with grits,” a voice beside me said. A fellow student motioned at my plate. “The creamed eggs, I saw you looking at them. Mix them in the grits.”

“Don’t do it,” a voice across the table said. “You’ll end up with what looks like a chicken abortion.”

Student next to me recoiled and snickered as he ate the last bit of his creamed egged grits.

I offered my creamed eggs to him — “only if I can have the grits, too,” he said.

All that day I was really hungry — and I hoped (prayed) creamed eggs were just a breakfast food.