Curmudgeon

There is an old story my dad used to tell me about a cantankerous old coot who was never pleased. Every morning he woke up complaining. The sky was too bright, the sun too sunny. There was too much to do, not enough time. But mostly the industrious efforts of his jolly wife that seem to inspire the curmudgeon comments. She must have been sincerely convinced that if she truly gave him nothing to complain about, he would eventually praise her. She daily went about her work, with a song on her lips and chewing gum in her mouth.
The day early in their marriage when she felt she had come the closest was a morning when the coffee smelled exceptionally good. The day promised to be a beautiful one. All the hard preparation of planting had been done, the garden was in full bloom from the recent quenching spring rains and there were only a few chores to be done around the house that day. She was hoping that later they may even be able to take a drive.
As her man sat down at the breakfast table, she joyfully place in front of him his favorite breakfast, two eggs- one pouched and one fried. She stood and waited beside him after she poured his coffee, added sugar and stirred in the fresh cream. Would he smile?
He took a drink of the fresh squeezed home grown orange juice she so painstakingly had strained to make sure there were no seeds or large chunks of pulp which he hated. He began to eat his eggs with a grunt, glancing over his shoulder annoyed at her hovering. She scurried back to the stove to replace the coffee and looked on expectantly from a distance. As he mopped up the last of the perfectly cooked over medium egg yokes with the freshly baked biscuits she rose early to bake. There was a pause as she moved slowly closer to hear his report...
“Well, how was it?” She asked
While pushing back from the table, all he could think to say was,
“You poached the wrong damn egg!"