A Recipe For Depression

Another Selfish Dilemma

It’s silly that this blog is somewhat anonymous (though not entirely nor incredibly so) because there are things I find so timely and amusing I would like to share. But then someone from work would come across this and people would laugh at my shitty writing and I would lose delicate bits of respect I have tried to amass iota by iota. That’s what happens when you work at a magazine and you’re not on the editorial staff. You hawk this shit out piece by piece on the internet for free and praise god you have health insurance and a solid pay check during the waking hours. Then you go home and write and feel silly. Wash, rinse, repeat after me, etc.

The Mysterious Production of Eggs

I used to order my eggs scrambled: Two eggs, scrambled, with sausage and potatoes and toast. Rye toast, thanks. That was my order at a diner. But then, I don’t know. I wouldn’t say I was bored with the scrambled eggs; I was just intrigued by over easy.

The yolk, of course, is beautiful. I love the way the yolk looks when you break into it with the tine of your fork, the slimy yellow oozing out into the white diner plate. It’s incredibly visceral.

But it didn’t taste too good. I had expected delicate hollandaise sauce, not bland yolk. So I ordered it once. And then again. And again, until I knew I had to adequately salt and pepper the eggs, soak up the rye toast with that wonderful broken bright yellow, and dip some of my potatoes in the puddle.

I have yet to decide if I actually enjoy the taste of over easy more than scrambled. I think in this case, form might trump function.