My fridge keeps losing eggs.
We hardly ate them since eggs are now a luxury for my kids.
Every time Andrea, my MIL, visited? More eggs gone.
I installed a concealed camera.
What did I catch?
Andrea putting eggs in her bag and selling them to my neighbor Mrs. Davis for cash.
And I asked Mrs. Davis where she obtained her eggs.
“From your sweet MIL! She sells backyard chicks for $4 a dozen!
Four dollars.
Andrea stole from me and sold eggs illegally.
For illustration only.
I wanted to burst. Instead, I designed the ideal lesson.
I spent almost an hour meticulously hollowing out a carton of eggs, but seeing the golden yolk sink was strangely pleasant.
After that, I gently refilled each shell with a unique mustard-hot sauce mixture before returning them to the carton.
You’re doing what? James entered the kitchen around midnight and inquired. Is that mustard?
I answered, “Justice,” still working. “Sweet yellow justice.”
Trap set. Andrea arrived for her customary weekend visit with the grandchildren.
For illustration only.
She performed her regular thing as I pretended to be on my phone. She embraced the kids, complimented their growth, and hid near the kitchen.
“Oh, let me get some water,” she remarked nonchalantly. She entered the kitchen as I pretended to help Tommy with homework.
I grabbed my phone and saw her put the eggs in her bag.
She ran across the yard to give Mrs. Davis the eggs. She came back inside in minutes, praising the youngsters.
Andrea joined me for tea on the back porch that evening. We could see Mrs. Davis’s kitchen from here.
I saw her bake in the nights without curtains in her kitchen windows.
For illustration only.
Mrs. Davis moved back and forth with flour, dishes, and other goods. She broke the egg and shrieked as yellow mustard and spicy sauce poured forth.
“What the heck?” Andrea shouted.
I feigned to worry.
A moment later, our front door knocking made her jump again.
I struggled not to smile. Mrs. Davis stood there with mustard-covered hands and a furious expression, appearing like she’d found her winning lottery ticket was phony.
I beckoned her inside, and she exclaimed, “Those eggs!” “They were stuffed with…”
“Eggs?” I asked innocently. “The ones Andrea sold you? Something wrong with them?
Andrea entered the living room. Mrs. Davis stomped toward her suddenly.
“Andrea? What’s happening? You sold me eggs with mustard and spicy sauce!
“What? That’s impossible. Andrea growled at Rebecca. “You did what?”
I crossed arms. I did what? What were you doing taking my groceries and selling them to my neighbor?
Mrs. Davis opened her mouth. Did you steal these eggs from Rebecca?
Andrea’s scarlet cheeks contrasted well with her flowery outfit.
“I can’t believe this,” Mrs. Davis mumbled. Her finger dripped mustard on my floor as she pointed at Andrea. You had my trust! All that chatter about backyard chickens… Everyone at my bridge group has heard about your excellent eggs!”
For illustration only.
She bolted, slamming the door. Andrea soon left. She grabbed her bag and raced out the door, leaving her tea half-finished.
After she left, I laughed. James laughed harder than I did when I told him the complete tale at home.
He wheezed, wiping tears. “That’s what you were doing with the mustard and hot sauce?” “Great idea! Also a little scary. Remind me not to take your groceries.”
We now keep our eggs in the fridge.
Andrea never mentioned it again, and Mrs. Davis found a new egg source. I occasionally smile when putting goods away. Because nothing tastes better than catching an egg thief red-handed.
