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I’ve never been good at shelling eggs. Every time I complain about this culinary deficiency, my father reminds me “you have to get under the membrane.” And I have tried that — god how I’ve tried — but it doesn’t seem to make a difference. Mine are Frankineggs, horrible misshapen little things with their yolky guts hanging out.

And yet, when I was eight months pregnant, I responded to my motherly instinct to “nest” by making jars upon jars of pickled eggs. No, the symbolism is not lost on me. If you’ve never had a pickled egg before, the process involves hard-boiling, shelling and brining the eggs in vinegar and spices for several weeks.

I’d eaten a pickled egg the year prior at a trendy restaurant on Vancouver’s Robson Street. My husband and I were on a spontaneous getaway, just the two of us. We’d talked about maybe having kids one day, but at the time it wasn’t front of mind. We were just enjoying the present moment with each other.

My husband ordered the egg and I declared my skepticism. It was surprisingly delicious and went great with an ice cold beer. I was converted.

I didn’t have any of the usual cravings during my pregnancy, but one February day I looked out the window, thought for a moment, and decided I needed a pickled egg. Looking back, I was probably craving everything the egg stood for in my memory: strolling in the Vancouver sunshine, not having to pee every 15 minutes, and enjoying the freedom to eat soft cheeses and drink craft beer. Those were the days.

I started with a small batch — a dozen eggs — packed into a large mason jar. I brined them in a slightly sweet, slightly tangy solution with turmeric, curry powder and pickling spices.

They didn’t last long.

That’s when I came up with the idea to make an enormous batch to have waiting for after the baby was born. Many people had told me about the importance of ready-made snacks and meals for those first few weeks with a newborn. The thought of a fridge full of delicious pickled eggs that I could reach for any time was a strange comfort.

So I got four dozen free-range eggs from a co-worker and set to work. The shelling took hours. I listened to an entire Harry Potter audio book. At times, I’d get on a real roll and the eggs would just slip out of their shells like they were made of silk. I hoped my baby slid out that way.

But then there were other stretches — long ones — where it seemed like I was somehow, inexplicably, becoming even worse at shelling. Occasionally I would gobble up what was left of an egg, deeming it unworthy of pickling.

Even though they looked horrid, they tasted great. And so, when my mother-in-law came in possession of a farmer friend’s “reject eggs” (meaning they were too small to sell), I jumped at the opportunity.

There were four flats of 24. Ninety-six eggs.

It was a slog, but I pickled them all. It felt good to do something — anything — to prepare for the complete and utter uncertainty that lay ahead. It was something small I could do to regain some control. Pregnancy is like jumping in a car and having the brakes stop working; you’re helplessly, powerlessly along for the ride. It’s a decision unlike any other, and once it’s been made you just hold on tight and hope everything goes all right. You have no way of knowing if your labour will go smoothly, if your baby will be okay when they come out. You can’t control the outcome. How do you even begin to prepare for something so unpredictable?

Well, it helps to know you’re not going to starve.

By the time our son was born, there wasn’t a lick of space in the fridge — there were jars of eggs taking up every nook and cranny. I had pickled them in a variety of brines from turmeric to beet juice to red cabbage (which creates a vibrant blue colour) so we truly had eggs in every colour of the rainbow. Sometimes, in my sleep-deprived brain fog, I would just stand at the fridge and admire them. My quirky, runty, hideous little darlings.

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Dear readers, if you too would like to enjoy the magic of homemade pickled eggs, this is a good recipe to get you started.

Bon appetit!

— Charlotte Helston gave birth to her first child, a rambunctious little boy, in the spring of 2021. Yo Mama is her weekly reflection on the wild, exhilarating, beautiful, messy, awe-inspiring journey of parenthood.

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