The Perfect Protein: The Perfect Comfort Food

Today started out dismally. Downpours. Sick cat. Rejection from a competitive professional development opportunity on the heels of yesterday's article rejection from an academic journal. None of these things are life-altering and a week from now, when Cat is done with finals and here with me in Columbus, this morning will seem laughable.

But for now, it warrants comfort.

Enter: the egg.

Warning: if you are vegan, you will likely not appreciate the following blog. It involves runny yolks.

I grew up eating eggs scrambled. Not even that often. Breakfast time was cheerio time. When we went to diners, I ordered pancakes. Eggs were for flus and snow days. When I became a vegetarian at 12, my mother would tell me, when I turned up my nose in disgust at the dinner table offerings of over-cooked chicken and mashed potatoes, "You don't like it? Make yourself an egg." Which was fine by me. One egg and a spoonful of vegetables became a dinner staple when I was cutting myself to 300 calories/day.

In college, though, I learned that eggs can be hearty. That they come in a variety of disguises--my roommate's favorite being a sweet thai chili soft-boiled variety over english muffins. I've learned that there's something delicious about pressing a fork into the over-easy dome of a yellow yolk, hearing the delicate snap as the yellow spreads and softens the sweet potato hash underneath it. The sour dough toast dams the edges of the plate, making breakfast pool into a soggy, salty, delicious masterpiece.

This morning, opening the free-range egg carton--I spend entirely too much on eggs, almost 4 bucks a dozen from a local farm but the politics are worth it--I found two left. One whole wheat english muffin was buried underneath a carton of yogurt on the bottom shelf of my fridge. The amish butter from the fall farmer's market has a couple tablespoons left.

So I heat up my cast-iron. Watch as a lumpy square of local confection becomes a pool awaiting its swimmers. Two eggs, cracked,whitening immediately. Turn to gold brown. Flip over. Survey the crispy brown edges as the yolk gets a quick sizzle.

Flip over.

Plate waits.

English muffin takes the egg's place in the pan, soaking up the rest of the butter.

Salt.

Pepper.

Eggs meet english muffin meet plate.

This time, as I press my fork into the yolk, my eyes tear. My life, momentarily stalled.

I hope the first bite lightens my mood, as I approach 35 papers in need of compassionate grading. I hope, this morning, that eggs are enough.