They hold the spirit of Christmas, the Thanksgiving meal, the laughter, the family cheer, and the lost ones that we held near. Every single Christmas, Thanksgiving, and family get together, my grandmother concocted the most delicious deviled eggs. They were always the first things to go; they were the family favorite.
The white of the egg resembled her pure smile, pure joy. The yellow of the yoke was her laugh, her happiness. The red paprika sprinkled on top was her love. I wonder if we loved the deviled eggs, or if we just loved them simply because we loved her.
The mother of ten had the recipe passed down from her mother, and the line continued. She passed it down to my mother. When she passed away, the deviled eggs stayed. We still experience her pure smile, pure joy, her laugh, her happiness, and her love. My mother brings those same deviled eggs to Christmas, Thanksgiving, and family functions in remembrance.
They are still the first things to go; they will always be the family favorite. They still resemble my wonderful grandmother. But now, as my mother makes them, they encompass her in them too.
The white of the egg is her teeth, the same style as my grandmother’s. The yellow of the yoke is her warmth. The red paprika garnished on top is her heart of compassion. The wonder has still never left my mind, if we love the deviled eggs, or if we simply love my mother.
I wonder what the deviled eggs will be when I make them.