My beloved egg !

The theme of the drawing course was « Taming the perfect shape of the egg ». I must admit that, at first, I was quite impressed. The word “perfect” tickled me. I was so far from it !

Anyway, since I don’t feel very gifted in drawing (the training was offered and gave me a chance to meet my friends !) I thought that I could at least write about you to compensate. Ideas weren’t lacking as you will see…

I said « write about you » because « describing you » with your shaved face and your bald skull already used my whole vocabulary…

I said « write to you », because « feeling you » or even « smelling you », is physical to me ; it makes me immediately want to eat you !

You and me, oh, my egg, it’s an old story. Almost half a century of relationship. A tremendous amount of emotionally strong sensations (lets go for adjectives !) very different, sometimes complicated, often luminous.

Until I left my parent’s home as a grown up, they would, episodically, tell me story of their neighbor, in Geneva, who hung himself. According to my parents it was because this man only ate hard-boiled eggs, since he was not able to cook anything else !

My parents loved this story and used it as an example to explain, confirm and prove the damages of cholesterol.

I remember this hen house too, of which I inadvertently left the door open of while I went searching for some eggs, for the farmer’s wife. I’ll never forget this « holiday at the farm » ! At least I learned to get the hens back into their house ! Was I ten years old then ? Maybe…

And long before I’ve been able to appreciate the different manners of cooking you, I had many opportunities to taste you.

The eggnog that Mom gave me when, feverish, I was lazing about my bed, surrounded by a bulwark of feathers… I even tried to swallow you raw just to see. Well, I saw ! And didn’t like it at all !

Oh my egg, you followed me through my culinary experiences, my victories in the kitchen, and if I did sometimes lose my (self) control – I, fortunately, as a cat with his nine lives, always fell back on my « l’eggs » !

Nevertheless, I always bear in mind the memory of some of your brothers, always evocative of satisfaction and pleasure.

As this charming pub, in the heart of Manhattan with its giant American bars, and high stools with red moleskin. The young chef who orchestrated the cooking of the eggs immediately suggested : « sunny side up ?". Sunny side up… what could be more optimistic to start a new day ! I loved, I was loved and your silky softness illustrated quite well the way I felt.

My memory jumps again. I am in London now. If England has not been elected like France got by the Gods (happy like God in France say the German !) it still deserves an award for its eggs. And those are so delicately scrambled at lunch time that I did very voluntarily dedicate myself as a tester…

I did have hard times though, while cooking in this French restaurant, in America.

Alison, the day cook was pregnant.

Bridget, the night cook, was pregnant.

And I broke eggs on a massive scale, all day long, because I had this brilliant idea to initiate our customers to the joys of « Famous French pancakes » and « Quiche Lorraine » !

We really made it all, remember, oh my egg. I could do everything, create everything with you. Always you were there to help me, to accommodate me, discreet, creamy, tasty and light but also bright of inflamed whiteness…

I dream of those Norwegian omelets coming from some distant fairyland made of ice and fire with you, my egg, in the middle !

You also knew how to be comforting. You are so talented beyond your humility.

It happened that you would fall… at my feet.

Clumsiness, perhaps, but more importantly : symbol of my fragility.

And in the glare of this sun, which explodes each time anew, I venerate the come back of theses moments, fugitives, full of grace, when the joy overflows, deep inside me.

Oh, my egg, how many times did I envy your plenitude, before being finally, at my turn, rich and full…

… like an egg !