Or, you can just eat them all by themselves.
Enjoy.
BACON DEVILED EGGS
DIFFICULTY: Pahahaha.
TIME: 11 minutes.
What you’ll need from the cupboard: The stock pot with lid. 2 plates. A knife. A fork. A slotted spoon. A large mixing bowl. A small bowl. A spatula and skillet.
What you’ll need from the pantry: Half a dozen eggs. Lemon juice. Paprika. Salt. Pepper. Bacon. Mayonnaise. Dijon mustard. Pickle relish. Ice.
It was August of 2016. I had a book signing in Hollywood on one weekend and another in Las Vegas the following weekend. Jess and I had events scheduled for every day of the 10-day span.
The Hollywood signing was on a Saturday. We were staying at the infamous Roosevelt Hotel, where many of the televised awards ceremonies are held. Jess was so excited to see Hollywood.
The signing was sheer insanity. I’d not done a West Coast signing yet and had no idea what to expect. I was flooded with people hoping for a moment of my time, a signed book, and a photograph.
The day before I left for the event, I spoke with my father.
“Hollywood, California, huh?” he asked. “And you’re staying at the Roosevelt?”
“Yep.”
“I’m proud of you, Son,” he said. “Knock ‘em dead.”
I laughed. “I’ll do my best, Pop.”
He reminded me of the pride he felt, often.
For instance, my first #1 Bestseller happened overnight. I had no idea. I knew the book was doing well but had no idea of its transformation from selling well to becoming a bestseller.
The phone rang at 5 am. “Hey, shithead,” he said. “You know any bestselling authors?”
I’d gone to bed at about 3 am, having been up all night finishing a scene I was writing. I rubbed my tired eyes. “I don’t know,” I muttered. “Why?”
“I do,” he said.
“Okay.” I was sure an author joke was headed my way. “Let’s hear it.”
“You,” he said.
“Me what?”
“You’re a bestselling author.”
“Since when?”
“Fuck, I don’t know,” he barked. “They don’t call me and tell me such things. I just noticed it when I got up.”
I quickly grabbed my phone and went to my book’s page on Amazon. An orange banner was attached to my product page, identifying my book as a bestseller.
I swelled with pride. “Thanks for calling, Pop.”
“Maintain a humble attitude,” he said. “Nobody likes a prick.”
“I will.”
“I gotta go,” he said. “My eggs are getting cold.”
“Talk to you later.”
“Love you, Son.”
“Love you, too.”
When in Hollywood for the signing, I got back to the hotel (from the actual book signing) about 2 am. Jess and I were exhausted and we both fell asleep immediately.
My cell phone rang at 4 am.
I lifted it from the nightstand and stared at the caller ID.
It was my sister.
4 am in Hollywood was 2 am in Texas. I knew a 2 am call wasn’t going to be a good thing.
With some reluctance, I answered. “Hello.”
“Scott?”
“Yeah.”
“He died, Scott,” she said.
Motionless, I stared at the ceiling.
“Are you there?” she asked.
My mind wanted to respond, but my tongue was too fat to speak.
Jess woke up. “Who is it?”
I looked at her and shook my head. I didn’t know what to say. It really didn’t matter. I couldn’t have spoken anyway. I lifted my phone and pointed the screen at her.
She glanced at my sister’s avatar and then took another quick look at my face. I was illuminated by the poolside lighting, which was right outside our window.
She began to cry. “Is he going to be okay?” she whispered.
I pulled her against me and rested her head against my chest. She and my father were extremely close. I shook my head.
She bawled.
“Scott,” my sister said. “Are you there?”
I nodded. “Uh huh.”
“He’d want you to go to that Vegas signing,” she said. “You know that, right?”
“But…”
“Those people are expecting you,” she explained. “You told them you’d be there. They bought tickets. Dad would throw a fit if you broke your word.”
I mentally recalled my father’s words of wisdom regarding promises.
All a man has is his word. Make sure yours counts for something.
“Can I call you back?” I asked, my voice cracking as I spoke.
“Yeah,” she replied. “Matt’s there with Mom. I’m leaving in a few minutes to head in that direction.”
“I’ll call you back.”
“I’m serious about that signing,” she said.
“I’ll Talk to you soon.”
I did as my father would have expected and made it to the Las Vegas signing. In an odd state of mind, I did my best to hide my grief. It wasn’t easy. He was far more than my father. He was my best friend.
He had been my closest friend since I was a child.
On the second or third day of the Las Vegas event, I made a post on Facebook. “If anyone’s in Vegas and wants to meet for a drink (I don’t drink alcohol, but I figured I could have coffee) I’ll buy you one at the Planet Hollywood. Meet me at the PBR Rock Bar at 9 pm.”
A hoard of people showed up, shocked that I’d made such an offer. One had been a fan since my inception as an author.
Nervous and shaking like a dog shitting peach pits, she nervously sat and stared. “I…can’t,” she stammered. “I can’t believe…this.”
I wanted to make her more comfortable. Ease her mind a little. “Are you hungry,” I asked.
She shrugged.
I opened the menu. “What looks good?”
She shrugged.
The waiter happened upon us. He surveyed the group. “Does anyone need food?”
“What’s your best appetizer?” I asked.
He tapped his finger against the menu. “The bacon deviled eggs.”
I looked at the nervous fan. “Do you like deviled eggs?”
She nodded.
“Bring enough of those for everyone,” I said. “And a few orders of BBQ Nachos.”
We stayed and talked until 3 am, talking about everything and about nothing. We took pictures, told stories, and ate deviled eggs like everything was okay.
During that time, oddly, everything was okay.
It was the way my father would have wanted it to be.
Be an asshole on the surface, or the world will take advantage of you. When the opportunity arises, lower your armor. No one likes an asshole.
The memories of that 10-day period will always be with me, as will the taste of those wonderful deviled eggs.
This is my rendition of them. In my opinion, they’re fractionally better.
Here we go…
Cut 3 or 4 slices of bacon up with kitchen scissors. Fry it in the skillet until well done, but not a burned-up mess.
Set the bacon aside on paper towel lined plate. When it’s cool enough to touch, cut with the scissors into chunks the size of your pinkie nail.