the music of the gugs

Opening the musty time dinged cabinet on the overhead shelf in my kitchen.
A wooden egg cup precipitates from above and bocks me on the head.
Seized by an unholy fury I snarl an imprecation, grab the offending object, and fling open the back door preparatory to hurling it (the egg cup not the door) into the field.
I stop.
My heart ponders.
I realise I haven't eaten a boiled gug in decades.
Instead of casting the egg cup into the outer darkness, why not just use it to eat an egg?
I go back inside and for the first time since the 1980's, I rustle up a boiled egg.
Delicious.
There's a lesson there somewhere.








Corrollary: The Irish sometimes call eggs gugs and vice versa.