My Eggs
Each morning he serves me eggs and I eat them. This is one of our small nice things, eating eggs together in the morning before we separate. In busy periods it can be the only time we see each other in a day.
It’s no hassle for him to make eggs every morning. He likes to cook and I don’t. This is one of many complementary differences between us, where he will like something that I don’t like, or I will like something that he doesn’t like, and it will help each of us to avoid things we don’t like. In the case of egg-making, he likes to do it and I appreciate that very much.
Actually sometimes I have trouble eating the eggs. It can be hard to eat the same thing for breakfast every morning. According to the nutrition facts on the carton, each serving of eggs, which is one egg, has 70% of my recommended daily cholesterol, so eating two eggs seems almost flagrant. He says that eating cholesterol doesn’t actually raise your cholesterol, and many health experts agree with him.
The other reason I have trouble sometimes is because of my kinship feeling towards the eggs, you know, because I have eggs too, which I don’t blame him for forgetting because they’re very little. They’re just beyond the threshold of naked-eye visibility so only those with exceptional vision can see a human egg. My vision is just average, and his, of course, is quite bad, so out of sight out of mind.
This morning he says to me, “Look.” He is walking towards me holding a pot of water. Inside the pot are two eggs, one swaying on its side at the bottom, one bobbing cheerfully on the surface. “Bad egg. Caught it.”
“Which is the bad one?” I say. After I say it I feel like I don’t want to know actually. Seems sad either way.
“The floater,” he says, and plucks it out. “Like a witch.”
Every month I ovulate on the full moon, actually, which I’m almost sure he doesn’t remember. I have a friend who’s sort of a witch, well, a wiccan really, and she told me that was very powerful, because I’ve got my little egg and then the moon is a great big egg, like. Say what you will about all that but I think it’s impressive I’m so regular, astronomically regular.
I feel excused by the bad egg so I tell him I’m not in the mood for eggs this morning. He makes a two-egg scramble for himself from two good eggs and chews his yellow eggs with yellow teeth. I imagine what if those were my eggs he was eating; it would probably only take him one big mouthful to eat every single one, that I’ve had since before I was born. He’d still be hungry after.
Each morning he serves me eggs and I eat them. This is one of our small nice things, eating eggs together in the morning before we separate. In busy periods it can be the only time we see each other in a day.
It’s no hassle for him to make eggs every morning. He likes to cook and I don’t. This is one of many complementary differences between us, where he will like something that I don’t like, or I will like something that he doesn’t like, and it will help each of us to avoid things we don’t like. In the case of egg-making, he likes to do it and I appreciate that very much.
Actually sometimes I have trouble eating the eggs. It can be hard to eat the same thing for breakfast every morning. According to the nutrition facts on the carton, each serving of eggs, which is one egg, has 70% of my recommended daily cholesterol, so eating two eggs seems almost flagrant. He says that eating cholesterol doesn’t actually raise your cholesterol, and many health experts agree with him.
The other reason I have trouble sometimes is because of my kinship feeling towards the eggs, you know, because I have eggs too, which I don’t blame him for forgetting because they’re very little. They’re just beyond the threshold of naked-eye visibility so only those with exceptional vision can see a human egg. My vision is just average, and his, of course, is quite bad, so out of sight out of mind.
This morning he says to me, “Look.” He is walking towards me holding a pot of water. Inside the pot are two eggs, one swaying on its side at the bottom, one bobbing cheerfully on the surface. “Bad egg. Caught it.”
“Which is the bad one?” I say. After I say it I feel like I don’t want to know actually. Seems sad either way.
“The floater,” he says, and plucks it out. “Like a witch.”
Every month I ovulate on the full moon, actually, which I’m almost sure he doesn’t remember. I have a friend who’s sort of a witch, well, a wiccan really, and she told me that was very powerful, because I’ve got my little egg and then the moon is a great big egg, like. Say what you will about all that but I think it’s impressive I’m so regular, astronomically regular.
I feel excused by the bad egg so I tell him I’m not in the mood for eggs this morning. He makes a two-egg scramble for himself from two good eggs and chews his yellow eggs with yellow teeth. I imagine what if those were my eggs he was eating; it would probably only take him one big mouthful to eat every single one, that I’ve had since before I was born. He’d still be hungry after.
Maddy Raskulinecz lives in Baltimore, where she's an MFA candidate at Johns Hopkins. Her work has appeared at Word Riot, Spork, and Moire Mag. Find her on Twitter: @littleraskul.
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