Lately, I had this nagging feeling that something wasn’t right.
At first, it was little things — a few missing snacks, a slice of bread here and there. But when I started noticing eggs vanishing from the fridge, I knew something was up.
We rarely ate eggs ourselves — they were mostly for the kids, and let’s be honest, with the price of eggs these days, they’re practically gourmet. So why did it seem like they were disappearing every time my mother-in-law, Andrea, came over?
Suspicious, I set up a hidden camera. I needed to know if I was imagining things or if Andrea was somehow involved.
What I found wasn’t just petty theft — it was a full-on egg smuggling operation.
Andrea was literally sneaking eggs into her purse during her visits — and then selling them to my neighbor, Mrs. Davis, for cash.
Yep. Selling my eggs.
Later, I casually asked Mrs. Davis where she was getting her “farm fresh” eggs from.
“Oh, your sweet MIL! She has backyard chickens, apparently. Sells them to me for only $4 a dozen!”
Four dollars. For my eggs.
I was floored. Andrea had been quietly raiding my fridge and running a small-time, illegal egg business on the side. I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream — so I chose revenge.
Operation: Spicy Justice
That night, I got to work.
I carefully hollowed out a full dozen eggs — not an easy task, but surprisingly satisfying. Watching the yolks drain out felt like the calm before a storm.
Then, I filled each egg with a homemade blend of mustard and hot sauce. Tangy. Fiery. Unforgettable.
“What are you doing?” my husband, James, asked, stumbling into the kitchen at midnight.
I didn’t even look up. “Justice,” I said. “Sweet, yellow justice.”
Showtime
That weekend, Andrea dropped by like clockwork. Hugs for the kids. Compliments on how big they’re getting. And then, right on cue: “I’m just going to grab some water.”
I pretended to help my son with his homework while watching my phone screen. The camera feed showed her slipping the eggs into her bag and heading right across the yard to Mrs. Davis’s house.
Business as usual.
Later that evening, I invited Andrea to sit on the back porch for some tea. From there, we had a perfect view into Mrs. Davis’s well-lit kitchen — she never used curtains.
We watched as Mrs. Davis bustled around, preparing to bake. She cracked open an egg — and screamed as mustard and hot sauce splattered everywhere.
Andrea jumped to her feet. “What on earth?!”
I kept my cool, sipping my tea like nothing had happened.
A minute later, a furious knock rattled our front door. Andrea flinched.
I opened it to find Mrs. Davis, absolutely covered in mustard. She looked like someone who had just been duped out of a winning lottery ticket.
“Those eggs!” she exclaimed, stomping inside. “They were filled with… something disgusting!”
“Oh, the ones you got from Andrea?” I asked innocently. “Were they not… fresh?”
Andrea walked in at that moment. Mrs. Davis turned to her, fuming.
“You sold me booby-trapped eggs?! What’s going on here?!”
Andrea’s face flushed deep red. “Rebecca, what did you do?”
I folded my arms. “No, Andrea. The question is — what were you doing stealing my groceries and selling them to the neighbors?”
Mrs. Davis blinked. “Wait… these weren’t even yours?” she said to Andrea, backing away slightly. “You said you had chickens!”
Andrea muttered something, but her face said it all. Guilt, embarrassment, and a little bit of mustard-colored horror.
Mrs. Davis turned on her heel and stormed out, muttering something about telling her entire bridge club. Andrea followed shortly after, leaving her tea half-drunk and dignity shattered.
The Aftermath
When James got home and I told him everything, he burst out laughing.
“That’s what you were doing with the mustard and hot sauce? Remind me never to cross you.”
Now, the eggs in our fridge stay right where they belong.
Andrea’s never brought it up again, and Mrs. Davis has a new egg supplier. As for me? Every time I reach for an egg, I smile a little.
Because justice was served. One spicy egg at a time.