Eggs

March, 2016 ● 6:15 AM

Pick two eggs from the new carton.
One dozen lasts exactly one week.
Different sizes, brownish shells,
nestled in the paper tray.

Scramble in a glass bowl, slightly tilted to the side.
With a fork, not a whisk.
A method Gordon would surely dismiss.

Heat the tiny purple pan, big enough for two.
Hand hovers over it—yep, warm enough.
Coconut oil spray,
Pshhhh, Pshhhh.
Just a bit.
And then,
Eggs right in.
Stir, stir with a spatula.
On and off the heat every 30 seconds.
Gordon would approve.

Two slices of toast with plenty of butter
jump right out of the toaster
just in time for the eggs to be done.

I sit with my breakfast
in the quiet of the morning.

My eggs
and Netflix on the iPad.

My mornings are my own.

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March 2026 ● 6:03 AM

Pick two eggs from the clear container in the fridge.
Eighteen eggs don’t last a week.
Same size, white shells,
cold in my hand.

Scramble in a glass bowl, slightly tilted to the side.
With a fork, not a whisk.
Gordon rolls his eyes. Throws his hands in the air.

Heat the tiny purple pan, big enough for two.
No space for mine.
Hand hovers over it—yep, warm enough.
Avocado oil spray,
Pshhhh, Pshhhh.
Just a bit
And then,
Eggs right in.
Stir, stir with a spatula.
On and off the heat every 30 seconds.
Gordon, come on. I, at least, give you that.

One slice of toast, cut into triangles. No butter.
She asks for “pan solito!”
I stand with her breakfast, watching her on the monitor.
Early enough to have it ready for her.

Her eggs
and the clean dishes that need to be put away quickly
before she’s up.

Morning isn’t just mine anymore.