Hard-boiled

Before I took my morning shower Friday before work, I put a pot of cold water with 7 eggs on my gas stove and turned the flame on high, figuring I'd have some nice hard-boiled eggs ready to eat by the time I was done with my typical 10-12 minute shower.

Eleven hours later, my work week was finished. I was feeling fine because my lessons have been going well, the Korean teachers we're teaching are fabulous, and before I left work for the day, I'd mastered the line dancing steps to Good Time (by Alan Jackson) ahead of my next dance class with four of my stupendous female coworkers. I drove my scooter downtown to fill up with gas before I started to wonder what I'd eat for dinner, when I suddenly remembered with great horror that I'd never turned the gas off or taken the eggs of the stove!

Scrapping plans to pick up some dinner on the way home, I immediately turned for home and tried not to imagine all the terrible things that must have happened in my apartment while I was blithely having such a good day at work. All the water would have long ago boiled away and the eggs must have been cooking in a dry pan all day. How would the apartment smell? The pan was likely ruined. Would my place be filled with smoke? Was there a fire? Were my multiple computer hard drives, which contain the things most meaningful to me, destroyed? Why, oh, why, was I so foolish? Surely the worst must have happened, and I vowed to never, ever speak of my idiocy to anyone.

I arrived home and dashed up the single flight of steps to my second floor abode, fumbled with the keys, and opened the door to...nothing. No smoke, no odor, nothing. Without removing my shoes, I strode across the kitchen to find my pot of eggs still on the stove and the dial still turned to high, but no flame. Removing the lid, I found the water still at the level it was when I originally filled the pot, and the water was cold. Removing one egg and cracking it open with one hand in the sink, I found the egg was hard boiled and a bit mushy, indicating it was overcooked. So, what happened?

The eggs were cooked, even over-cooked, but most of the water remained in the pot. The flame on the stove was high and strong before I took my shower, but somehow it went out. The pot wasn't burned and my apartment didn't stink of burning or gas. The only other key to my apartment belongs to belongs to my employer, who holds the lease on my apartment, but while they were here fixing my washer the day before, I don't believe they returned the following day, and if they did, why was the dial stilled turned to high? Hmmm...

One of my teacher trainees recently told me I look like Colombo in my new cashmere coat. This mystery may take such a hard-boiled detective to explain why my quest for eggs for breakfast didn't lead to the disaster I feared at the end of my most excellent week yesterday.