Saturday, May 12, 2012

Eating My Egg With a Spoon

On Thursday, a woman had an Egg; or the Egg had a woman, the nuances were never clear.

 She never did eat her Egg with a spoon but it was one of those things that was always a possibility, at the back of her mind.

She was saving it for a treat.

To the woman, Eggs were comfort food, giving sustenance and support - and they were loyal.

Even when she boiled them.

They really were great like that..Eggs. They noticed her and worked around her silently. They plotted where she was in the kitchen just as she had marked them on her map and then they orbited around each other, mutually appreciative.

She would sometimes talk to them as you would to plants, telling the creamiest of them that she recognised the special care he gave her and how that made her feel Queen of The Eggs; that because of this, she would be attentive to his shell, not drop him nor separate his yolk from white; that Eggs were as safe with her as she knew she was with them..........
And how gloriously golden their yolks were!  How wonderfully smooth to the touch were their shells. They really didn't care that her knees creaked as much as the fridge door or that she was wearing trousers two sizes too big which meant that the crotch was around her knees making cycling proficiency a nightmare. The days when she was as fresh as an Egg herself were drawn far, far into the background of a past hazily sketched. Yet you could read on their settled posture that the Eggs saw nothing of these things. They  saw ....her.

On Friday, something small crawled into her stomach and sat their uneasily, unwanted and unwelcome. It was defiant and vociferous, rendering her unable to sleep. It caused her so much pain that each time it moved -which was frequently for it could not seem to get comfortable - involuntary tears would swim upwards over the ladder of her windpipe, push forwards and  tumble out over her grieving eyes to fall into the pools gathering around the rocks of her lips and chin.

And the fridge was empty.

Her Eggs had left behind the scent of their regret. Death by Spoon was exquisite but forbidden and so they had left with tiny cracks in their shells.

It was her legacy.


  1. From a writer such as you Robbie, I really appreciate that x

  2. Beautiful PP and I know just how you feel.

    But the fridge may not be as empty as you think right now, it's just that your eyes are drawn to the space the eggs have left.

    Each time you open that door and the light comes on (and it will because that's the way of things), try to look around and see all the other amazing things it contains.

    For now while you may not have the makings of an omelette you still have all the ingredience for a wonderful stir fry! xxx

    1. Absolutely right and I will tell her so when I see her next. I happen to know though, that she doesn't want to have to make the best of a bit of manky mangetout and a curly carrot like she has been known to do before! ;)

    2. and nor should she - I talk the talk and yet here I am still hankering after that bloody egg myself damnit!

      I guess it's just a question of riding and writing it out.

      We'll get there you and me :) xx

  3. Great story Pam. Well written. An interesting view of menopause x

    1. well, that has made me laugh! It wasn't written about the menopause but now I reread it, I can see why you thought so. Maybe Sarah's personal reply put you on the wrong track - though art should be something different to everyone who views it. Thanks for the comment and the smile it brought:)x

  4. Not sure what's going on with this to tell you the truth...but enjoyed the read.