Better Half and I are a team when it comes to many things.
This includes making deviled eggs, which we did for Thanksgiving, taking this as a side dish to Aunt Betty's house.
In the end, sometimes taking the tried-and-true dish that everyone appreciates is the way to go instead of racking your brain to come up with something new and exotic and maybe not all that hot after all the angst and effort.
Come holiday, picnic or special occasion, there's generally always room on a plate and in a stomach for a deviled egg or two.
So deviled eggs it is, we decided.
First comes the egg boiling which I do after much deliberation over how many eggs to submit to the sauna treatment.
I consult my partner. We do the math. How many people times how much will they eat equals how many eggs Janice boils.
And I've come a long way from my early egg boiling days of equating explosion with egg doneness. That's not to say, however, that I've mastered the process entirely.
I assume the eggs are done now when I've lost track of time and Better Half yells, "Are you watching those eggs??!!"
Better Half's job is peeling the eggs, so he cares about whether they're overdone or underdone. If they're too done, for instance, I notice he mumbles a lot as he stands hunched over the kitchen sink, the water running as he chips away at egg shell resistant to leaving the egg.
The deviled egg recipe itself is a good one, but it's hard to write down and share with someone else to try.
Blobs of Miracle Whip. Spoonfuls of Hellman's mayonnaise. A few squirts of mustard. Shakes of salt, pepper, Accent, onion powder and garlic salt.
That's it. My sister Linda once wanted me to add a spritz of pickle juice, but I stood firm. I just couldn't bring myself to compromise the integrity of the core recipe.
I mix all this stuff together and summon Better Half for a tasting consult.
He grabs a spoon, scoops a small sampling of the mixture and takes a taste. He squints. Cocks his head to the right. Smacks his lips. Frowns.
"It needs something," he says, pointing to the Miracle Whip. "Maybe a dollop and a little more onion powder."
I follow the foolproof advice. Another spoonful. Another taste.
More lip smacking followed up with head nodding. "Pretty good," he says, which is high praise coming from him when I'm fixing something to eat.
The real barometer of whether they're good or not, however, is bringing home an empty egg dish.
That's "egg"-actly what we were going for.
On a P.S. note from last Sunday's column about this and that, including Better Half and I enjoying a horseback ride on Coffee and Tucker, I mentioned that we were as happy as Roy Rogers and Dale Evans on Trigger and Butter Cup.
Two people made a point to tell me Dale's horse was named Buttermilk, not Butter Cup.
I did what any good wife would do - I blamed my husband. I had Better Half take the fall because that's what he said her horse's name was.
So Better Half was only half right - Butter, yes, but milk, not cup.
Either way, continued happy trails, my friends.
(Kiaski, a resident of Steubenville, is a staff columnist and features writer for the Herald-Star and The Weirton Daily Times and community editor for the Herald-Star. She can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org.)