The 3 Minute Egg

Breakfast with the Towers

The 3 Minute Egg

For over 50 years Mr. Nigel Tower ate the same 3 minute soft boiled egg at exactly 7:15 am, served up to him at the breakfast table by his mum, who was as far from gentle as Earth is from Mars. Mother was not to be trifled with in any way shape or form or you would be subject to a thrashing that would make you wish you were not born.

Nigel’s dad and mom were disciplinarians to the core. They shaped their son to be as regimented in the traditional stoic fashion as all family members who came before, perhaps as far back in history as fathomable, the remotest of times when mankind was less kind and more inclined to slither from the primordial ooze were all of humanity comes from.

Things would be done by design the Tower way moving forward, the right way, to perfection and no other way for sure.

After his parents died in a horrific car accident, an event which left everyone perplexed, as no one knew why or how they came to such a dreadful end. Driving off a cliff in broad day light on a sunny morning, on a clear, wind free day was simply not their style. But they did die. Things however did not change for Nigel.

He continued to have his 3 minute egg served up to him in exactly the same manner at 7:15 am every morning. His wife Jane was given this unalterable assignment at the matrimonial alter when they sealed the deal, sealed their fate in holy matrimony as husband and wife for all eternity.

Mr. Tower was as tall and wide as his name. Oppression and perfection were a way of life for him. He was a respected newspaper reporter in his community who always made sure to have plenty of ink in the ink well to write his stories.

He overpowered his petite wife at every chance. She trembled with fear every morning, hoping to get it right. When he appeared at the breakfast table the world stood still. The correct evaluation of the soft boiled egg was all she lived for. Jane worried, nearly became hysterical in anticipation of what her husband might say. His approval of the meal could mean the difference between life or death.

There was never a more accomplished wife beater than Mr. Tower. He would beat the Misses just on general principle. If the eggs were not perfect she would have hell to pay. She would crawl back to the kitchen and try again.

One sunny day, perhaps it was a day in mid June, Mr. Tower came downstairs precisely at 7:15 am as usual to find his wife hard at work in the kitchen. He was furious that she was not at her station in the dinning room to serve him his 3 minute egg. She was not performing her assigned duty.

There was no water boiling on the stove. There were no eggs in the pot boiling. There was no 3 minute egg timer near by to complete the breakfast task. This was the most shocking, horrific and insulting moment of his life.

He watched in horror as his wife fired up a frying pan in front of him. She began whipping eggs into a frenzy, beating them into submission, scrambling them to death for the love of God and country. She made sure to burn them to a crisp as that is what they deserved. Nigel cried out, “What are you doing to my precious eggs you son of a fish!”

His passion exploded into a furious rage against his wife. He began to strangle her to death, angry with himself because he could not punch her in the face and strangle her simultaneously. Death was all that mattered now. Death is what he craved. Death is so delicious. “Die!” “Die you stupid son of a fish!”

It turns out that his wife, who is normally in a state of panic and filled with trepidation in such matters, was at this moment cold and calculating. She knew oh so well a little bit about precision and good timing herself. Her husband was so predictable, right down to the second of his abhorrent, obtrusive, cynical and violent behavior that she knew exactly when to make her move.

She wasn’t just whipping eggs into shape, into a frenzy for the sake of making merriment; knowing full well that her spouse hated scrambled eggs with a red hot passion. He thought of this action as sacrilege against nature. It would certainly trigger his passions into a force to be reckoned with. With an unstoppable rage and in a fit of anger worthy of a front page political scandal headline, he would not be able to control himself. The flood gates of hell would be open to him to rain down terror on the perpetrator of these crimes against humanity and common decency.

Scrambled eggs would make her spouse go crazy, would also seal his fate. She was prepping him for a meeting with destiny. His attack on her was so predictable that it was a crime unto itself. The precise moment of the attack came as predicted. The police arrived on time, pounding Nigel into submission and beating him better than any egg he had ever encountered or ate.