By RUBY BAUDHUIN
Scrambled (plain): I encourage you to do a little more eggsploring. You’ve been cooped up for too long, I fear. You insist that you just like routine. Maybe you think food is food, and ultimately, what you eat isn’t that important. Take pleasure, my friend! Find an egg dish to root for! In this eggconomy, hope may be all you have.
Scrambled (cheesy): An eggsellent choice, and quite uncontroversial. You’re not passionate, but sometimes contentment is perfectly fine.
Scrambled (whites): Really, you want this? This is what you believe in? Are you egging me on? You’re a prankster, I’m certain. Surely this must be some kind of joke. I can’t be honest with you if you refuse to be honest with yourself.
Scrambled (chunky): Straightforward, I like it! If you must consume eggs, you’d rather eat them in one huge bite and get it over with. Your vigor is astounding. And that willpower, too! Looking for a like-minded breakfast companion? Just tell me (w)hen and where.
Scrambled (chopped into little pieces): Feeling peckish? I sense you may be trying to run away from something. You are fearful of gluttony, greed, and overindulgence. Your ideas — like your eggs — must be shrunk and trimmed down to a digestible size. Excess disgusts you. Everything in moderation, you say again and again. Remember: you are not afraid of eggs, you are afraid of yourself. Take a look in the mirror. How thin is your skin?
Made-to-order omelet: Sure, you look a little awkward standing next to the counter, scrolling mindlessly on your phone while you wait for the chef to call “omelet!” You need not be embarrassed. We all know that you have a heart of gold. You rule the roost, which is to say you hold your family and friend group together. Enjoy that omelet! I just know it must be so clucking good.
Hardboiled: These eggs have you in a yolkhold. You’ve started to block out the ever-present smell of sulfur. You tell yourself that life is not about the friends you lose, it’s about the muscles that you gain. I see you scarfing down garbanzo beans in the corner, dear. I know that you hoard salt and pepper packets as if they will make up for the fact that you feel worthless and alone.
Frittata: Why, hello, chic chick, my Minorcan queen! I can tell that you are a lady of fine taste. I sense that you host a war within you: you want to be noticed, but are terrified of being seen. Open your heart and put yourself out there! We all know that anyone would be lucky to love you. Come out of your shell, chick. Pray, make a peep!
Egg salad: I know what you’re thinking. You’re expecting some kind of insult. I’m sure you’ve heard them all by now — “mayo-happy,” “involuntarily shellibate,” “lacking a strong feather figure.” In truth, I admire your courage. How you must delight in the joyous whimsy of the sandwich bar, playfully dipping into the assortment of condiments, cheeses, and various fillings! Shine bright, my love. Indulge in the relishes and cornichons. Do not let the simple-minded troglodytes deride you. They are all merely jealous of your untethered soul.Fried eggs: Your life is defined by asceticism and endurance. You often feel neglected by the world around you. You know you are not like the others, those who cannot imagine a day without their morning scramble. You are so used to disappointment that you have started to forget the possibilities which risk may bring. You’ve been satisfied only once in the past year — and how thrilled you were at the opportunity to join your peers in a sunny side up! — but alas, the eggs were undercooked. You grimace at the memory of the too-glossy yolks, the whites still raw and mucusy. You’re cracked, girl. Suffering need not be your default state. Buy a frying pan. Treat yourself.
Featured image: Vivian Kopka’27
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