the most beautiful thing: fried eggs
I’m looking at it. The most beautiful thing. I’ve thought about going vegan. In fact, I have been vegan. How on earth did I last without eggs? And how did life resemble anything short of a miracle without fried eggs, especially? It didn’t. Period.
This thing happens to me after martinis. I call it martini insomnia and it usually hits at approximately 2:13 am and 20 seconds. Approximately. This morning, I honored the funny, somewhat swirly restlessness with a little tweeting, a monologue chat session with a far away time zone, some piano practice (I have a digital, so no neighbors were injured in the making of this post), and now the frying of two very beautiful eggs (procured just today from a local farm by the hands of my sweet neighbors).
The whole apartment has that salty rich smell hovering through it, the one that begs to be devoured at early-morning tables of my childhood. My dad loved over-easy, though more often made us scrambled. I think it was some sort of right of passage when I began eating my eggs over-easy instead of scrambled. In fact, sitting here now with this plate (begging to be devoured and waiting patiently for the typing to conclude), I feel more like an adult than I do when I scramble them. Scrambling eggs always somehow reminds me of being seven and staying home sick. My sister’s boyfriend was a college boy and babysat me. Those scrambled eggs he made me ended up… eh hem… anyway…
These are not that. These are the juicy fried eggs of a small martini hangover cropping up in the middle of a big martini insomnia and they are glorious! They are. In fact. The most beautiful thing.
Fried Eggs by Francesca Nobile.