Mar 30, 2018 3 min read

I have never tasted a deviled egg. All the countless picnics, parties, brunches and graduation parties at which those yellow half-moons sat smiling on the buffet, I did not reach for one. I don’t think I’d like the texture.

Easter has me thinking of this now. All those colored eggs that will be hard-boiled this afternoon must be used up in some way. Deviling them seems the most elegant way. Just leave me out of it.

For us, coloring eggs happened on Good Friday. My grandmother would boil a big pot of eggs, and then spread newspaper onto the kitchen table, where my sisters and I would perch the eggs on little wire hooks and lower them into the cups of dye. A short bath would produce pastels; a longer stay in the dye produced vibrant, rich tones, but that required more patience than we had. The egg-dyeing kits included special crayons made of a clear wax that didn’t absorb the color. We’d use the crayons to draw zigzag designs around the eggs, or to write our names.

Easter morning, our baskets would be filled with our artwork. The eggs would be cast aside as we plunged our fingers into the plastic grass to unearth the jellybeans. Or better yet, little chocolate kisses or M&Ms.

Eventually, the eggs would end up in the fridge, either nestled in their cartons or lined up in the door shelves, waiting to be used.

We were not an egg-salad family. Nor were we the type to chop up hard-boiled eggs to sprinkle atop a tossed salad. I don’t remember my mother ever making deviled eggs.

Instead, those eggs would roll around on the fridge door, bumping off of each other like billiard balls. By mid-April, their numbers would deplete a little. By early May, a few sad stragglers were left. The ugly one always seemed to be the last one left. If you use green dye with red, you get something the color of mud.

I’m guessing there will be plenty of deviled eggs on Easter dinner tables this weekend. I’ve known people who wait all year for the post-Easter-basket deviled eggs. Likewise, I’ve been at picnics where the plate of deviled eggs was picked clean a few minutes after the plastic cover was pulled off.

We all have foods that repel us just by how they look. My grandmother used to keep Pop Tarts on hand for us kids, but she never tasted one. Not even a bite. My grandfather never ate cheese or butter. When I think of the pizzas he missed out on, I just feel sorry for him.

For me, it’s mustard, oysters and any meat that is ground up and reshaped into something else. By this I mean meatloaf, meatballs and some hamburger patties. Bologna is inching into that category for me lately, too. Also, in keeping with the season, I won’t touch licorice or other spice jellybeans.

And of course, deviled eggs. People tell me I’m really missing out, but I don’t think so.

In honor of my grandmother, I might boil and color an egg or two today. I don’t know what I’ll do with the eggs after that, but I promise you, it will not involve the devil.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.