The Terrible Episode Involving Eggs, the devil and the Spirit of ANZAC

April 25 (or as we here in Australia call it: TODAY) is Anzac day. It is the day to remember our fallen heroes, to respect our soldiers on active duty, to eat many crunchy, granola-based cookies, and to reflect on "the Spirit of ANZAC".

According to a leading website (which I Googled), the spirit of Anzac is defined as "... an intangible thing. It is unseen, unpredictable, an unquenchable thirst for justice, freedom and peace. This phrase is synonymous with 'The Spirit of the ANZACs' which is frequently used to describe particular actions by, and qualities of, people. However, despite being intangible, the Spirit of ANZAC is a cornerstone which underpins our Australian image, way of life and indeed is an integral part of our heritage. Can it be defined??

I believe it can, and I am here to share with you a tale of immense courage, bravery and fortitude. It also involves eggs, and free range ones at that, and some dijon mustard - but I digress.

It was a dark and stormy Thursday night, only the sky was clear, the moon was full, and I'd only just brought in the laundry. I knew that tomorrow, my unit would be putting on a morning tea for the veterans of Samford, and perhaps even a few soldiers on active duty. The tension in the air was electric, as I set the stove with the faulty element to "high", and prepared myself for the worst. My husband, my partner-for-life and my example of the Australian value of "mateship", was only just finishing work in the shed, and I knew that I would be on my own. It was a night primed for disaster, and pregnant with fear.

The moon didn't disappoint.

I placed the biggest cookpot we had on the b@stard element, and placed 18 perfect eggs in it. I knew from hard experience that I'd gotten lucky in the placement alone. Domestic terrorists abounded, and I knew that my devilled eggs recipe would immeditately draw the wrath of.... someone... down on me, but I pushed ahead anyway. I understood the stakes.

I let the eggs boil. Biding my time, I believed I fooled counter-insurrectionists by playing "Free Cell" for four hours in an effort to distract them. I think I fooled my boss too, but that's a different story.

Then, at long last, came the moment of glory: the eggs were boiled, the scene was set, and all that was left was to drain the boiling water, split the eggs in half, mix the separated yolks with some dijon mustard (provided at a HUGE cost by the French insurrectionsist - those "smelly, cheese-eating surrender monkeys") and then refill the halved egg whites with the tasty mixture, sprinkle lightly with paprika.

Oh how over-confident I was! How arrogant and misled!

I knew the danger that lay ahead of me: the risks involved in draining a pot of boiled eggs into a shallow sink will forever haunt me; but I proceeded anyway - uncaring.

My faith was in my cause! My unit was counting on having devilled eggs in position when required. I was incredibly glad to be able to do my bit.

So, I took the boiling pot off the stove, carried it delicately over to the sink - ever cognizant of my mission - and proceeded to stealthily pour out the boiling water, horribly aware of how vunnerable I waz.......

But Oh Perfidy! Oh Treachery!!

I was foiled! The lid slipped off the pot, the boiling water splashed back against my delicate, precious white tummy, and as I screamed in despair (and used a few words I had learned in Portugal from a rather saucy woman name "Roma"); it was all I could to to carry on with my mission.

In agony, I managed (barely) to shell the eggs, cut them in half, mash up the cooked yolks with some dijon mustard, lemon pepper and a hint of oregano, before losing consciousness.

But what could I do?? The Spirit of ANZAC had capture me. My tummy was blistered and raw, my heart was beating erratically - but the eggs had to be made!

At last, my mate - my hero and my confidant, my Bruce - arrived, like my guardian angel and said: "Hey sweetie, what can I do?"

Sweeter words words were never spoken at the Nek, at the front lines of Gallipoli.

And consciousness deserted me, and as my heart fled in fear, it was all I could do to gasp out "don't...............forget.......... the.......... paprika.............................................."