Roasted Garlic Deviled Eggs with Parsley and Chives

While you were all at church, my hot gf let made me stay home to ensure I got this post done today. It’s been awhile since I’ve updated and she won’t tolerate workplace inefficiencies. If it keeps up, I might have to find someone else to cook for me. If she keeps letting me skip church, I’ll gladly work every Sunday.

We spent all yesterday morning and afternoon driving around viewing apartments for our big move-in coming up. Spring cleaning galore, I dragged her into a few apartment sales where amidst scouring through junk I would promptly ask the current tenants if they were also getting rid of themselves. When they confirmed they were, I would give them our information so we could potentially become the new-and-improved renters: the fundamental goal of recycling.

At the first sale, while overhearing a haggard lady complain to her bitter divorced friend about how her own no-good, lowlife husband had left her too, I enthusiastically approached to say my hot gf and I were looking for our first place together. I then attempted to score a deal on her stuff, but think subconsciously I felt a little sorry when I agreed to pay $45 for a bunch of poorly maintained vinyl records covered in mold and dog hair, an “I Love Lucy” doll manufactured by Mattel in 1998, and some pasta bowl my hot gf wanted. So long as I’m willing to part ways with The Smiths’ Meat Is Murder*, I should make most of my money back; otherwise I’m just going to treat it like a charitable donation—and who says I need church?

Chef’s Note: The boyfriend buys a lot of crap that he claims he’s going to “sell”, but instead it just accumulates. Don’t be surprised if My Hot GF Cooks is featured on Hoarders in 10 years. Maybe less.

While I sat writing last night, my hot gf studied the packaging of a baking decorating set she had just bought to fill her deviled eggs. It was an absolute necessity we made a trip to Bed Bath and Beyond for this earlier that afternoon. I looked over to see how long she would stare at this kit containing 3 plastic decorating tips and 20 disposable bags.

She looked up and laughed. “I should have made some extra test eggs: I did not,” she stated diplomatically. “They’re not going to taste anything like fuckin’ Third and Vine’s deviled eggs, but it’s the same idea. They are going to have roasted garlic with parsley and chives.”

Third and Vine is a tapas place we like in Jersey City. We especially like their deviled eggs and actually ate them Friday night after apartment hunting. Apparently their deviled eggs bring out some hostility in her. The apartment hunting has been bringing out some hostility in me.

Chef’s Note: Silly, silly me – ALWAYS make extra hard boiled eggs when making deviled eggs. As I was working on mine the boyfriend had to hard-boil some more for me… Also, Third and Vine makes the best deviled eggs I’ve ever had; and they have their cheese displayed in an old curio cabinet. A win-win in my book.

The first place we went to, I knew; that was it—I made a decision right there. But she’s got all these parameters it’s got to meet: it’s got to have a dishwasher, central air, an elevator, a doorman, two ovens, a ceiling fan in each room, crown molding, marble imported from Italy—you name it. I’m a very simple guy: when I see something I want, I make up my mind on the spot. It’s kind of like when I met her; I knew what I wanted and that was it. I can only imagine what her wish list was before she met me—at some point you’ve got to settle. Not everything’s always going to work; there might be a few loose screws, maybe a gas leak—some unsightly stains in certain places—but eventually you fall in love with a fixer upper.

She’s got me looking at all these places now and I really don’t feel like because I already know what I want. Low and behold, the place is no longer available. And guess what? Now she wants it! You know why? Because women want what they can’t have! She’s impossible. In order for us to ever move into a place that she likes, we’re going to have to move out of it.

Chef’s Note: We are now looking for the largest apartment possible so we can each have our separate offices (i.e. escape rooms). We can’t wait to move in together.

“Can I have a snack before dinner?” I asked.

“You can have fruit,” she replied.

I pulled out a giant Tupperware filled with cut up pieces of cantaloupe, strawberries, and clementine. I sat back down on the couch with my laptop, intermittently picking from the container with a fork.

“This is a lot easier than I thought,” my hot gf proclaimed from the kitchen, as I looked over at her squeezing a bag full of yellow pastry-looking mixture while aiming the nozzle at an egg half. She called me over and fed me a partially broken one.

“I forgot to garnish it!” she announced. Right as I finished chewing she stuffed another in my mouth topped with parsley and chives.

“The flavor of the egg is great on its own. If you’re gonna garnish it I would chop the parsley and chive up really finely and sprinkle it on,” I told her as if I’m some food connoisseur. “You should have saved one for yourself to try.”

“I know, I don’t have any now!” she exclaimed, repositioning the remaining egg halves to fit each individual oval mold on her presentation tray. Guess she’ll have to rely on my expert food critique.

“I think I’m just going to add the chive because the parsley is a really distinct flavor,” she said.

I think she made the right call. The flavor in these eggs speaks for itself. You can garnish them all you like, but by the time anyone eats just one they won’t care what they look like: they’ll already be on to the next one.

Chef’s note: I’ve really turned the boyfriend into quite the food snob, and I love it. He’s my resident taste tester, and in this case he was right on the money. The parsley was a bit overpowering, but the chives have a more subtle flavor. They provide a bit of freshness and sort of remind me of spring. Happy Easter!!

*Over the years, I’ve grown to appreciate The Smiths, but tend to avoid divulging this information, as I’ve never gotten on the Morrissey bandwagon. Saying you’re “a Smiths fan” immediately subjects you to intense cross-examination from other Smiths fans, and I never really understood the cult of Morrissey mecca. Frankly, to say I find him smug and overrated would be a trite understatement, but that’s besides the point; yet, a moot debate you’re stuck in if you happen to mention “they’re a decent band” (whose music mostly sounds the same). It’s just easier to say I don’t really listen to The Smiths.