Does anybody get as angry about wrecking the perfect egg as I do?
I’m not actually looking for an answer. It’s just…I get so angry.
Eggs are just about the perfect food vessel. Fragile, sure, but also not really: try to squeeze an egg from end to end and you’ll find it pretty hard to break. You can smash an egg on the table or the ground or your forehead with ease, I suppose, but what then have you proven? You just broke something that wasn’t meant to be smashed. Gold stars all around, big fella.
There was a time when eggs were forbidden in my family because of the tendency among the adults (now referred to by us as “the Old People”) to obscure (then ignore) cause and effect, a kind of shirking of responsibility in order to get through the little cruelties (and ultimate tragedies) of an uncertain life. Or so it seems to me.
Fear can make people do scary things.
Sunny-side up eggs are a particular favourite of mine – that delicious, velvety yoke, warmed but not overcooked, sprinkled lightly, delicately, with a little bit of salt and a dash of pepper. A tiny sun, a taste of heaven. Perfect.
But there are times when I mess up and the yolk breaks, spreads, then overcooks into a gelatinous clump of yellow-on-white. Not exactly inedible, but certainly far from appetizing.
And then what? Then fucking what?? No such thing as the perfect egg, not this time.
I’m not eating that!
Ugh. The fruitlessness of it all. The absolute waste! Is a little perfection – the joy of it, the fulfillment therein – too much to expect? What is this world even? I can’t.
Yeah. Yeah, sure. Sure, there are always more eggs (they come by the dozen, don’t they?), but who knows? Don’t you realize…? I just –
Also, those eggs are not that egg. That egg is ruined. Forever and endlessly.
And now my toast is lonely.