Exotic Egg Makes Scrumptious Meal; Induces Epiphany
A little while ago, I mentioned that a mysterious egg had been discovered on the premises of Piscataway Acres. Experts later determined that the egg belonged to the rhea family. The farm had several offers to purchase the exotic egg from museums and wildlife centers, some of which were offering millions of dollars. Ultimately, my conscience forced me to decline. What good would an egg do sitting behind a pane of glass? Instead I did what any rational-minded, egg connoisseur would do with a rare, exotic find: I turned it into a quiche.
I proceeded with caution. Hoping to maintain the pristine state of the delicate outer shell as best as possible while effectively extracting the yolky gold within, I brainstormed the various sophisticated techniques I could use to do such a job: Poke a needle through it and gradually wear around the edges? Rub a cotton swab over the desired drainage area until the forces of friction and time gradually erode a tiny hole at the edge of the egg? Tap at it with the edge of some tweezers? Naturally, I decided on an electric screwdriver with a quarter inch drill bit.
The egg was more delicate than I had imagined as it cracked at the touch of the drill bit. At first, I was devastated. The torturous knowledge of the egg shell’s worth and irreplaceability reverberated in my mind. Shell-shocked and sad, I let the delectable blob of yellow gold slip through this unexpected exit, slurping as it went.
Regardless of the broken shell, I determined not to let my mind be like the runny yolk dripping into the blue bowl. “The shell may be broken, damn it, but that doesn’t mean the egg won’t make one fine omelet,” I asserted, pulling myself together. “I thought you were making quiche,” the yolk said back to me telepathically. I concurred. It was a mental lapse. “Well, quiche, then. Whatever.”
All of my hopes and dreams became wrapped up in the fate of the goo before me. Wresting the whisk clumsily from the tangled utensil drawer, I held it up in the air for a moment with my arm in a rigid right angle. I was inspired. In a trancelike frenzy, if such a state can exist, my mind stood idly by as the whisk became a natural extension of my arm, wildly lashing back and forth from all sides of the mixing bowl. My friends would never believe me that this single rhea egg would be sufficient to create a quiche that could feed a family of four.
But that is exactly what it did.
I ate slowly, thoughtfully. It was delicious, but metaphorically bittersweet. The desecrated shell weighed on my mind. It was, after all, one of a kind. And now it was broken. Setting down my fork on the plate, I gazed at the open shell on the table and lightly brushed it with my index finger. The light tomato taste of quiche still rested on my tongue like the enduring, but unnoticed, influence of humanity’s dead on today’s living.
A couple of days later I learned that my shell was not as rare as I had first supposed. It turns out rheas are just as concerned with propagating their species as any other animal and thus would be laying eggs regularly throughout the summer. I smiled as I realized that the brittle outer body of the egg was less important than what was happening inside of it. Bodies deteriorate, but the inner workings of that body push forward to some kind of uncertain destiny, whether it is in the form of a quiche, a crème brûlée, or a full-fledged, living, breathing bird. Bodies die, but life lived fully is felt down through the ages.
Maybe eggs, even exotic ones, are meant to be broken.