When our oldest son Ben was about nine years old, my parents took all the kids and us to IHOP for breakfast. My mom was seated next to him, and I was across the table.
Ben ordered eggs overmedium, with toast and bacon. His plate came and he just stared dubiously at it, instead of digging right in.
The waiter left when all the food was served.
"What's wrong?" my mom asked Ben, whose nose was wrinkled in disgust.
"My eggs are... wobbly," he said.
My mom burst out laughing. The eggs were undercooked and yes, "wobbly" was a perfect description. It just struck us all funny.
A few minutes later the waiter came back to check on us.
"Is everything okay?"
My mom swallowed her bite so that she could speak up for Ben, who was afraid to complain about restaurant food at his age.
"Actually, no," my mom said, her shoulders starting to shake, her lips curling in. "My grandson... would like--"
We could clearly see her trying to hold back her laughter, which, of course, made me giggle.
"My grandson...would like eggs... that--"
She began to wheeze. By this time all of us were howling into our napkins.
The poor waiter smiled sheepishly, and Mama tried again.
"I'm sorry. My grandson would like eggs that aren't,,,,,,,,,, WOBBLY!" Her voice went up two octaves and squeaked on the last word.
I was pounding the table laughing so hard. Silverware clanked and orange juice leapt out of glasses.
"Ma'am, did you say the eggs are wobbly?" the waiter asked matter-of-factly.
My mom nodded vigorously. "Yes! Look at them. Wobble wobble." She jiggled Ben's plate for proof.
I spewed coffee through my nose.
That's the last thing I remember. "Wobble, wobble."
Lesson learned: Some descriptions never leave your mind.