The Wish List

During lunch today with my oldest child - she's rapidly closing in on 20 - she announced, "I wish chickens laid all-yolk eggs!" Yolks are her favorite part of the egg; our dog usually gets the white. This particular egg yolk was exceptional, having come from a batch of real farm-fresh eggs bestowed upon me by my mom's friend: this woman raises chickens, loves raising chickens, but gives away all of the eggs because no one in her family eats them. Just tipping the lid of the carton and making visual contact with each extra-large brown orb elicits a sigh of deep satisfaction. Twelve little reasons to love grits and Benedict! No, I will NOT divulge her name. She's our connection. Our glorious heaven-sent little-Tennessee-farm secret. But, I will fry, poach, boil, or scramble for you any number of these golden-yolked treasures if you ever stop on in.

While one part of me was ready to explain why there would be no chickens to hatch without the egg white but . . . then. . . there would also be no eggs - which came first? - the curious, wheels-always-turning-and-churning side of me got to thinking what a world it might be if our oddball desires actually materialized. Though it's as clear as firm albumen where it gets the chicken - or the egg? - circumstances in other arenas might prove okay, even beneficial.

First, it bears investigating the origin of such quirky thought. If I had not been around to hear it, my partial-egg-loving daughter would have voiced the words and just as quickly lost them. Back into the corridors of her brain. Bye-bye. I recall just this morning pondering how furniture is shifted from one side of a room to the other, or from one room to another, but the room itself remains fixed in place. What if, say, the dining room could be swapped with the living room for a month or so? Then, I could admire the handsome old elm tree in the back yard while I rattled away on the laptop. Conversely, the perpetually shady living room would garner a bit more sunlight with two windows welcoming the eastern-oriented morning rays. It's a win-win. Right? Right? Anyhoo, until the egg wish came up, I'd forgotten I ever contemplated the casual restructuring of my house's floor plan.

While my daughter's thoughts emerged as an offshoot of the sensory pleasure she derives from egg yolks, my mental foray wandered in as a result of my desire for a change of scenery while sitting down to my writings and, er, Facebook, each and every hour - scratch that, Freudian slip - I mean each and every DAY. While this is a small control group from which to cull my conclusive and decidedly non-scientific data, it does appear that a disciplined and common stimulus does not need to be present in order for these random ideas to pop-up in one's head. (Something akin to those pop-ups on the computer screen. We generally just 'X' those bad boys into Internet oblivion!) What is necessary, however, is free-association brain activity. Yeah! A chain of thought without any purpose other than that of being in the moment without need of disciplined gray-matter activity. With the number of people I know who don't opt for disciplined activity of this kind, these pop-up wishes must occur with alarming frequency.

If only we could catch these wishes like fishes in a net. Put them in an aquarium of quirky thoughts. What fun. What change. I think a few have been caught. Like taking the bunches of oats out of "Honey Bunches of Oats" cereal and selling them solo. Surely, some avid cereal fan was in the middle of a bite, savoring the comforting crunch of the sweet oat cluster amidst the damp flakes, and wished for a mouthful of that crunchy goodness sans droopy flakes? On the occasion that we have gummi bears in our midst, I heartily yearn for my very own bag of the 'white' or clear gummis because I don't think they should have to rub their chubby little elbows with the green ones. UGH! But, I've never checked to determine if these separatist bags exist. They could. M and M's markets their trademark candies in one-color packages. The pink 'breast cancer awareness' ones truly did taste better than the standard shades . . . at least to my taste buds.

I wish bathrooms self-cleaned twice a week like clockwork, right down to the nests of hair hiding beneath the vanities. I wish Haagen Dazs Rum Raisin was sold in those slender tubes designed for energy-gels, the ones runners use, and it could be stored in my purse until the urge hit. I wish I actually enjoyed executing 120 push-ups every other day so much that I laughed between sets. I wish walls painted themselves and selected the perfect color on their own. What if my cars ran on the garbage I can't recycle or compost. What if gray hairs turned into Red Vines when pulled out? What if my dog's poop came out already bagged? If only cellulite was revered by our society . . . my fanny would be on every popular magazine cover. If only Bermuda grass was a cash crop . . . I'd be a multi-millionaire and buy a home for my mother and my mother-in-law. If only Christ was exactly who He said he was . . . wait . . . but He is . . . at least in my life. There, you see? I was certain of few of these seemingly impossible thoughts had merit.