Separating Eggs
I remove my jewelry: wedding band, thumb ring, bracelet from my grandmother. I wash my hands, carefully, with soap. The eggs I use are brown, and if I strike them just right against the cutting board, they split neatly in half, crisp brown yielding to soft white within, the yolk nestled in one side as if it knows what I am doing.
I don’t bother trying to strike them just right. I love to tip the egg into my hand and feel it slip against my palm. The white is hard to hold, and it slithers through my fingers into the bowl below, leaving behind the yolk: dark yellow, cool, self-contained. The yolks fascinate me; they remind me of oysters – also cool and self-contained, also full of potential.
I slide the yolks into their own bowl, careful not to break them, wanting to watch them push against each other, wanting them to spend their last naked moments as discrete things.
That’s vivid. Makes me want to crack eggs.
The yolks fascinate me; they remind me of oysters – also cool and self-contained, also full of potential.
That’s a gorgeous line.
And to think that I use the shell to shell method. somewhat less messy, but greater chance of breaking the yolk, I think.