The Egg Story

This might just possibly be the story I've told the most times in my life.
My big younger sister (yes, that is how life is when you are 158cm tall) used to ask me to tell her this story again and again in those halcyon days when she was smaller than me and I could boss her around all the time. 
It's about the briefest story ever, but retelling it to my colleagues' kids the other day brought happy memories.

I was a toddler and already as dreadfully picky and delightfully OCD as I have grown up to be. I ate the fried egg with a soft yolk someone had served me and then very fastidiously wiped my plastic plate clean with my napkin. 
My mom came by when I was done and asked me whether I'd had my egg yet.
"Yes, Mommy."
"But you can't have had it. Your plate is perfectly clean!"
The long and the short of it is that I eventually did manage to persuade her that I had indeed eaten, but it took a while. 

That, and having the time of my life while the nine and ten year old boys my mom taught and cared for held my arms and legs and swung me back and forth before dropping me onto a mattress is my earliest memory.