Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Food would be nice if she could taste it. Since she can't, she refrains from eating, drinks tea and thinks about how good something might taste if only she could. She's taken to looking longingly at images of pretty food like a soldier or travelling businessman might look at pictures brought along of wives, sweethearts, family. Though it's not the same as enjoying, truly enjoying the Real Thing, there's a lot to be said for thinking about the intimate details of a favorite meal.

Daydreamed about a soft-cooked egg this morning - cooked for about five minutes, it had a slightly solid white which barely contained the hot, runny yolk. She managed to peel it without losing any of the precious center, then laid it on its side on the saucer. Thought again for the nth time how nice it would be to get a couple egg cups.

(Benno's mom collected egg cups - had walls full of them in her kitchen and diningroom. Would be quite a job cataloging them all. Fun, too, what with all the lovely designs: Willow patterns, flow blue, Portmeiron botanicals, porcelain with gold scrollwork from some fabricant in Limoges...for daily-to-day usage, plain white bone-china ones were kept in a cabinet in the kitchen next to the stove. Such a good idea, egg cups.)

Oh, to heck with egg cups for now - the egg still needed to be eaten before it got cold. Sliced it in half to set the yolk free, ground a bit of pepper over it from the new grinder she got for Christmas, carefully applied a pinch of salt to each half.

Grabbed the toast out of the broiler (Yes, she heats up the oven to make toast. Doesn't own a toaster; dislikes gadgets and clutter. Especially in the kitchen). Smiled for having gotten it right: brown, but not black. No soft spots, no need to scrape. Decided to go all out and have real butter this time - no Smart Balance. The 12 grain bread's sweet enough without the spread. Cut the slice into diagonal quarters, then framed the egg with the points.

Of course, the magic wore off when it came down to the actual eating: the egg felt like an egg with pepper but didn't taste like anything much: just the salt managed to get through the taste buds. The perfect toast crunched nicely, absorbed the butter beautifully, and felt very healthful thanks to the all the encrusted seeds. Again: didn't taste like much. The fussy preparation felt a bit like a waste of time and effort. She sat there with her big cup of honeyed tea and an apple (which got some salt on it - not like she could tell enough to be repulsed) after the egg and sighed. At least she filled herself up, anyway. Now how much longer before she had to repeat the ritual for lunch? Dinner might well be skipped if things kept up as such.


Nick said...

Hope you feel better soon Be. And just out of curiosity... is there any particular reason why you're referring to yourself in the 3rd person? Its not quite as bad as the Jimmy episode from Seinfeld... but still... its different.

Be said...

Who said I was talking about me?! I would never be so pathetic as to write a story about gustus interruptus...especially with something as plain as a boiled egg.

(Didn't feel like using "I." Seemed so egotistical. Always use first person singular.)

Meade said...

Take good care of herself and get her well soon.

lahuev said...


we collect egg cups, you can check some pictures of our collection here: