“Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg before it is broken.” ~ M.F.K. Fisher
As human beings we tend to find solace in food because it is so much more than just a basic need for survival. Food is memory; it is all the love of the hands that have prepared it for us.
My favorite egg dish is scrambled eggs. It’s one that instantly brings me back to my childhood, when my mother would cook them for me for lunch (sometimes with tiny pearls of pastina—my favorite). But these are not just any sort of scrambled eggs. They must be cooked properly in order to elevate an otherwise simple peasant dish into one that is simply ethereal and creamily spoonable. The key is to cook the eggs low and slow in just a pat of butter and with a good amount of patience. It’s a soothing and meditative preparation—the act of stirring. It’s a Sunday morning kind of thing. Stir. Ponder what to do with the day. Stir. Sip coffee. Stir…
An egg: such a basic food. A soothing comfort. Simple nourishment.
But this morning my mind is consumed by the aftermath of a bitter argument last night and I am trying to stir away the hurtful things that were said. As sharp words pierce my thoughts, swarming my head like stinging bees, all I can do right now is stir. This morning I especially need comfort. I need to feel small and I yearn for the simplicity of being a child. Before the complications that inevitably accompany adulthood settled into everyday existence.
This morning I crave the uncomplicated; the familiar. The sort of comfort that comes from the warm embrace of a loved one; or a bowl of perfectly scrambled eggs. For now, in the solitude of preparing eggs for myself, I find solace; and the kindness of being fed is felt deeply within my soul.
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Editor: Rachel Nussbaum
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