A perfect egg feels smooth on the outside. Speckled and brown, because the brown ones are supposed to be better for you; Cage-free, organic. Cold from the refrigerator. I crack one against the bowl with some restraint and break it into the bowl, controlled. Discarding the shell in the trash, I do this dance that encompasses the kitchen space and suddenly I am Siva in that movement, in that moment. Lord of the Dance as far as breakfast is concerned. As far as my legendary scrambled eggs are concerned, which I balance with a good beat and a pat of Smart Balance. Of course butter is better, but not for me and this is what we have to work with. I’ll use two, maybe more if I’m splitting them with my mom. I love the moment when it all comes together and coagulate, when the toast begins to brown and make the kitchen smell heavenly. The rush to get plates I forgot to before. Bacon is a treat, but not a necessity. I am quick to season these eggs with a good amount of salt and fresh cracked pepper. Maybe if I feel so inclined, I’ll squeeze out a teaspoon of ketchup, red and vibrant, smelling sweet and vinegary.
I’m told eggshells are good for composting. But Dad always said to actively compost will attract vermin, so we don’t do it. Despite the fact that we go through plenty of eggs, coffee, and banana skins and orange peels. It could make for good compost. Decomposition, decompression, deescalating an increasingly uncertain future. Environmental urgency. Scapegoats abound. Conference table, head in the hands, facepalm, hand wringing anxiety. Walking on eggshells and scraping the yolk off bottoms of shoes. Wiping your feet on the ‘Welcome’ mat. Time comes for a change. Wet socks from a deluge storm, tidal wave dreams come true sometimes. Destruction again, the promise of Hindu gods waive your rights for preconceived notions. Logic and order are constructs and life is chaos.