Thursday, May 10, 2007
The Bleak Extravangance
The fragility of the egg holds a lesson for us all. Delicate when tapped or jostled, yet indestructible when squeezed vertically. So, if you work on making your head super resistant to crushing pressure, it's OK if you're completely vulnerable across your midsection. Tamalehawk processed this irrefragable truth with a weary nod.
We none of us don't need the egg. Hard-boiled or cradled in a piece of ham that is itself cradled in a muffin tin, covered with chopped chives and baked until glossy and opaque, the egg accepts all invitations to alter its aeriform innards into a flourish. Except some omelettes are an unspeakable drag, especially when you get down to the last few filling-less bites. You stare down at the porous yellow terrain, void of all shimmering cheeses or intriguing salsas, and you quietly set your fork down in resignation. It is not just a sadness signaled by the abrupt end of a leisurely brunch, nor the tinge of disappointment you feel in yourself for hastily choosing the omelette at the nameless diner who obviously has no business making them; it is the greatest sadness of all - the sadness from the loss of an egg's potential.