The little egg cup

I have been "under the weather" as the old saying goes.
This past week I have had either a bad cold or a mini flu.
Doesn't really matter what one calls it--it was miserable and
I am relieved I recovered so quickly.  
Those days when I was experiencing chills, muscles aches and all the symptoms of the common cold, even taking Hannah outside to potty seemed close to impossible.  Then I remembered days on the dairy farm when Dad's nose was running like a waterfall, yet coughing and sneezing, he was up at 4 am and off to the cold barn to milk the waiting cows.  I never heard him complain, though perhaps the cows did.  Mother, too, entered the cold room off the main barn where the large washtubs waited for her to plunge her hands into the soap and water to clean the milking equipment.  This was before in-line milking and all the pails, strainers, and the "claws" which were rubber-lined tubes that Dad slipped onto the cow's teats to gently extract the milk, had to be disassembled and scrubbed clean.  The only thing I ever heard Mother comment on-
and it was not complaint, simply a comment, was how her hands became so chapped and cracked and sore.
As I cuddled up wrapped in my sweaters and blankets this week, I
remembered  how Mother cared for us when we were little and were home from school with a winter cold.  She kept us in bed
with a radio on (no TV in those days). She made little paperdolls for us to play with.  They were very special paper dolls for they were
two-sided.  That is, they had fronts and backs.  The clothing she  made for the dolls slipped over the heads so that those dresses had both fronts and backs too.  She made us eggnogs with eggs from her own hens and rich milk and cream from our Jersey cow. 
But the favorite treat, one I longed for as I sat, an old lady with a runny nose, was a boiled egg in Mother's delicate little egg cup.
The egg cup was thin china.  It was just the right size to hold a large boiled egg on end, the egg's upper half exposed.  It was white, with a dainty pattern of pink rosebuds.  The rim was scalloped, outlined in gold.  Mother removed the shell from the exposed part of the egg, adding a dot of butter (also home-churned).  The egg in the pretty little cup was set on a tray and placed on my legs.  I was given a small teaspoon to scoop the warm egg from the bottom half of the shell.  When anyone speaks of comfort food, this is what I remember--Mother's eggcup.
What I would have given if she had appeared at my bedroom door
this past week, carrying the tray, bringing me the best medicine ever- that delicious warm egg in the special china eggcup.
I never see egg cups anymore.  I wonder if anyone uses them.  Does anyone even eat a plain warm boiled egg now?
I cannot recall seeing an eggcup anywhere, outside of an antique shop, in many years.  
This week the memory warmed me.  Maybe that is what helped me to get better so rapidly--recalling the little egg cup, and the love it represented.