Egg Erotica

Imagine the most perfect fried egg — not your dad’s fried egg, the one lubed up in butter only to be lost in between the folds of a slightly stale kaiser roll that he found in the backseat of his car — I’m talking about a winner through and through, one that needs no affirmation to confirm that it’s living on the sunniest side up. It knows its inherent purpose better than Justin Bieber.

Its yolk is enticing, a warm oasis perched atop a skirt of set whites trimmed with golden, crisp lace. It feels delicate on the tongue and teases the ears with a soft crunch when it folds in dissolution before it is no longer.

You’re Demi; the egg is Swayze.

That’s a shiver up your spine, and this is the egg that your mother said would slide out of the pan and into your life when you didn’t know that you needed it the most.

Count the ways that you could become one!

Your first union might be tender — just you, the egg and the knife that will so delicately pierce its throbbing abundance and cause it to run until it can’t any longer. Seduce it with a slice of avocado, maybe toast. What could ever be considered “basic” in a space of spiritual alignment where bread will mop away evidence of sin from the plate that was once a temple so pure?

Cut away at its inhibitions, but if a wild bed of fried rice is too much for it to handle, the safe word is “Cholula.”

Have it soft, have it hard, or don’t have it at all if you are of the vegan persuasion. Just have it your way, but maybe not from BK because chances are it won’t turn out like this.

Set a small skillet over medium heat and add a spoonful of your preferred cooking fat to the bottom of the pan. Swirl it around until it’s melted, and a shimmering film lines the heated surface. Split the egg wide open and listen to it crackle with joy to be raw in your presence. Gently soothe the bubbles that arise in the whites with the edge of a spoon before tilting the pan to catch the oil from beneath with the same utensil. Drizzle that good stuff around the perimeter of the egg and cover it with a lid to cook for a minute or two longer. Slide it out onto a plate and make it rain salt and pepper on that nasty thing, your angel in the shell but a freak in the pan.

True love has arrived without so much as a swipe of an app or, worse, a dreaded night in the club.

Put the ‘gram on the back burner and let a sad matcha latte be the notch in someone else’s bedpost.