Why eggs became my muse
April 7, 2021
Lately, the egg has become my muse.
As some of you know, I make Anne’s breakfast every morning, and eggs are a constant.
Often one, with two on Saturday, and sometimes none on Sunday.
We’re into a routine.
I believe it was Jolie Wilson who remarked that it was so romantic, my daily ritual of making breakfast before Anne dashes off to work.
Some men bring roses. I fry an egg and slide it onto a quesadilla.
What is love, after all?
This morning, I slept in.
Anne had been awake for three hours, and my first words to her when I came into the living room were, “Please tell me you didn’t make your egg this morning!”
“No honey, I waited for you; but I‘m starving.”
Recently, I took a photo of an egg as it cooked.
Today, I photographed the ninth egg before serving it to my starving spouse.
She said it was perfect, but they never look perfect, and that is why I photograph them.
They are never the same, but they are always perfect as they are.
I use the same cast-iron “GRISWOLD SQUARE EGG SKILLET”, given to me by my brother-in-law. He sent it to me after I showed him a photo of one I was considering buying for Anne because she loves eggs. He and Anne’s sister had not used their skillet in ages, and now we use it every day.
I use the same liberal dousing of olive oil as the skillet is heating, always on setting #3, unless she wants two eggs, which happens only on weekends, and then it’s on setting # 4, in a larger Wagner Ware cast-iron skillet, with a bit more olive oil.
I much prefer the square skillet and one egg option. They cook better but are never perfect.
For the record, the best eggs I’ve found come from Audrey Stange, whose chickens range free and eat bugs. Their shells are harder to crack, and the albumen is of a higher viscosity than I’ve seen in other eggs, but I digress.
After moving to Southern Oregon, I’ve struggled to find that daily inspiration to make pictures.
For now, it’s eggs.
And I don’t even like eggs, even though my first memory of eating was of dipping strips of buttered toast into soft-boiled eggs my mother placed before me while I was sitting in a formica-topped baby-tenda before I could speak.
Now, I’ve been a vegetarian for nearly 37 years and will only consider eating eggs if they are disguised in pasta or baked goods, but never as the lead act.
Still, they have a special place in my heart.
They are always beautiful, even when they are broken; and they never lie the same way twice.
Their imperfection is pure, as is my love for Anne.
Tomorrow, we’ll try again.