Bartender, there's an egg in my beer!

Outside the family room is an enclosed patio area we call the 'screen room', because two summers ago, we framed it in and put screen up. Not 'the lanai', not 'the Florida room', not 'the veranda', like others might call it. We call it the screen room. For our family, the other choices were a little too pretentious. It is a large, comfortable place with a concrete pad for a floor. We have a refrigerator, two comfy patio chairs with matching ottoman, a bar-height table and chairs, and a Tiki bar.

The Tiki bar was purchased at my middle son's request, when he was contemplating a long hot summer of college parties by the pool. Trust me, a Tiki bar is not my idea of outdoor furniture. But it was kinda expensive and is pretty cool. I brought it inside the screen room when the weather turned, and there it has stayed. It has grown on George and I. George even put his pink neon flamingo sign on it. And he loves his flamingo. Phil is his name. The flamingo.

Anyway, we enjoy most summer evenings in the screen room, chatting about the day. My husband and I are a bad influence on one another, because we just want to be around one another if we are both at home. Consequently, we don't get a lot done. More work gets done if one of us is gone, or if we are mad at one another.

During the long, wet, dismal winters,the furniture is covered, the Tiki bar gets dusty, the rugs get stored in the barn, and we stay inside by the fire. I have lived in this place for over fifty years and I still dislike the winters. More so as I age. Travel nursing in the southwest is looking good right now. We've tentatively placed the time to do so as next November, if the stars line up and George retires. Be sure to stay tuned for that adventure! But, back to the screen room. And the Tiki bar.

One morning, George found a broken egg on the concrete behind the bar. Strange. He cleaned it up. He forgot to ask me about it that night. The next morning, he found another broken egg. Hmmmm. I told him I didn't have a clue. He cleaned it up. The next day, a whole beautiful brown egg was on top of the bar. He brought it in, washed it, and put it in the refrigerator. The next morning, one of our Rhode Island Red hens, Betty, pushed her way through the doggy flap built into the screened wall, moseyed up to the Tiki bar, flew up onto the bar, and settled down to lay another egg. On a totally horizontal, flat surface. No padding, no edges to keep it there, just a flat cold place. Betty is no brain trust, but she really blew it this time. What lack of survival instinct led her think a Tiki bar is a good nest?

Well, George felt bad for the waste of eggs, so he place some garden gloves along the edges of the bar so that the egg would not roll off. We waited and watched. Betty came in, flew up, and clucked her surprise. Someone was messin' with her nest. She did not like it. She fussed around, drawing out long curious coo's. Finally, she looked through the glass doors at us with, I swear, a reproachful look, and left. But not before leaving an egg sized pile of crap where an egg should be. I made George clean it up.