I stare at my empty breakfast bowl. Well, not quite empty, a perfect yellow globe of boiled egg yolk remains. I can never bring myself to eat it. So it sits there lonely and accusing. Or maybe it’s happy not to have been eaten. Does it know it’s going in the bin? Is that a better fate for an egg yolk? Or is it at peace with its lot in life? Or maybe it doesn’t think at all, seeing as it’s a boiled egg yolk and all. I scrape the bowl out into the bin.
‘That’s enough of that,’ I think. But my eye lingers on the little ball of yellow, tangled in bacon rind in the trash.
‘What if?’ my imagination whispers.
I try to keep the eggs with their carton buddies when I stack them in their special compartments in the fridge. I don’t want them to end up next to a stranger-egg and feel lonely in their new home. These are actual thoughts I have as a grown human being and I often wonder if this makes me weird. I prefer to think I’m special. And that I can communicate with my food.
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