In today’s world, eggs are basically edible gold, especially in a household with growing kids. We budget them carefully — scrambled for the little ones, maybe a weekend omelet if we’re lucky. So when they started disappearing mysteriously, it wasn’t just frustrating — it felt personal.
And it was.
Turns out, my mother-in-law was running a black market egg business… with my groceries.
The Cracked Truth
Her name’s Andrea — sweet to the kids, polite to my face, but a little too comfortable in our kitchen. Every visit ended with fewer eggs in the fridge. I knew something was off. So I set up a hidden camera, not really expecting to find much.
But what I saw shocked me:
Andrea, stuffing eggs into her tote bag — and walking them straight next door to our neighbor, Mrs. Davis.
Later, I casually asked Mrs. Davis where she was getting eggs these days. She smiled and said,
“Oh, your lovely MIL! She raises backyard chickens and sells me eggs for just $4 a dozen!”
Backyard chickens? She meant my fridge.
Justice, Served Cold… and Spicy
I was angry, but I didn’t want a screaming match. I wanted a lesson that would stick.
So I spent the evening carefully hollowing out a full carton of eggs. I drained them, cleaned them, and filled them back up with a homemade brew of mustard and hot sauce — a mix so pungent it could probably strip paint.
When my husband James walked in and saw my lab setup, he asked, “Is that… mustard?”
“No,” I said. “It’s justice. Sweet, yellow justice.”
Sure enough, Andrea showed up that weekend. After her usual hugs and chit-chat, she “got a glass of water” — and helped herself to the sabotaged carton.
I watched it all play out on my phone’s live feed. She made the drop to Mrs. Davis, came back in like nothing happened, and we sat on the porch with tea — with a full view of Mrs. Davis’s kitchen.
The Yolk Hits the Fan
A few minutes later… a scream.
Mrs. Davis had cracked open an “egg” — and her kitchen, her clothes, and likely her whole day were ruined by the explosion of spicy mustard goo.
Andrea jumped. “What was that?”
Right on cue, there was a loud knock on the door.
Mrs. Davis stormed in, covered in yellow, furious. “Those eggs! They were filled with… with…”
“Eggs?” I asked sweetly. “You mean the ones Andrea sold you?”
Her jaw dropped. “You stole these from Rebecca?!”
Andrea turned crimson. “What did you do?” she hissed at me.
“I think the real question is,” I replied,
“What were you doing stealing and selling your daughter-in-law’s groceries?”
Mrs. Davis left in a huff, muttering something about her bridge club and “never trusting anyone with a tote bag again.” Andrea? She grabbed her purse and left before dessert.
James, when he came home, laughed until he cried.
“That’s what you were doing with the mustard? That’s evil genius level. Remind me never to touch your groceries.”
The Moral of the Story
Andrea never brought up the incident again. Mrs. Davis found a new egg dealer. And me? I finally stopped playing refrigerator detective.
But every time I crack an egg now, I smile.
Because sometimes the best revenge doesn’t come from yelling or shaming — it comes from a lesson too spicy to forget.
And in a world full of sneaky takers, let this be a reminder:
Respect people’s boundaries. Especially when they come with a shell.