“The patriarch has spoken his will,” she said. “Your eggs of deviled character are called upon for the upcoming reunion.”

“Nay,” he spoke from his seat upon the couch. “It shan’t be possible!”

“How dost your tongue say such?” she asked, turning from her email to address him with eyes wide with terror. “Dost thou dare disobey the call of thine own patriarch? Dost thou dare to suffer his disappointed gaze?”

“But how wilst I prepare them?” he pleaded. “The kitchen of the estate chosen to host our festivities will be crowded and teeming with tension and despair. There shan’t be room for me to prepare my eggs of deviled character there.”

“Then prepare them here, in thine own kitchen among thine own possessions, where thou art comfortable confident with the removal and re-processing of yolks!”

“What thou speakest is a dream! The eggs will not survive the hour – nay, hour and a half – of unrefrigerated driving! They may depart from here delectable and angelic, but they will arrive a mess of yellow and white, a shame to me and a dagger to my reputation as a noteworthy deviler.”

With that her eyes lit up with hope. “But what if we were to travel with them enshrouded in my Tote N’ Go Insulated Carrier? It was created for the movement of both hot and cold foods. And it came with one tray, among others, that features 18 indentations for 18 eggs of deviled character!”

He began to weep with joy now, his tears staining the couch cushions around him. “Forsooth! It’s as if the gods looked down upon us and delivered the perfect cure for our woes! I dost not deserve such princely treatment from the heavens as this!”

“Nay, sayest not these deprecations of self,” she said, taking the seat next to him upon the couch. “And dry your eyes, lest you desire your tears to season the egg whites.”

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