I guess it’s time.
I work from home, which means my days tend to be flexible. Some mornings start early, other start late, and the same goes for the end of my work days.But lunch is always at twelve.
Unless it’s 11:57. Or 11:55. Or my stomach is rumbling. But I do my best to sit in my chair, at my desk, working away at something, until the last possible minute I can stand it.
Time for lunch.
It’s then that I can leave whatever is happening, whatever has happened, or is bothering me, and just walk the few steps into my kitchen, open the fridge, and think. Think about everything but those things that are bothersome.
Movements start out quickly, without much thinking. Grab the eggs. A little milk. Put the skillet on the range, and turn it on medium-low, remember, you want to cook these gently. Bread in the toaster, but don’t turn it on yet, you don’t want the toast done before the eggs are. Might as well run some water in the sink so I can do dishes after I am done, and let those knives covered in peanut butter soak a wee bit to make it easier.
Stop. Breathe. Remember, this is when you need to pay attention. And enjoy.
Crack two eggs into a bowl. Add some milk. Too much milk. Add another egg. Pepper. Lots of fresh cracked pepper. Remind yourself that chives would be good on this as well. Put butter in that skillet and go out the door, behind the house, and grab a few chives. There are blossoms on the ends of a few of them, but they haven’t opened. Those would be nice on top of everything. A little bit of frou frou, a treat.
Back in the house, the butter has melted, and so has any inkling of what I have to do later. Eggs go into the skillet. It’s a little shallow, so not all of the eggs in at once. Let the liquid eggs form a slight skin on the bottom, add more cold egg mixture. More butter? More butter.
Turn. Scrape gently. Fold. More pepper. Turn up the heat? No, keep it as is.
I love these eggs. They’re soft, creamy, with rich curds. Yes, I could just fry them quickly, but this method tells you to slow down. You have to keep an eye on them. A teensy tinge of guilt comes over when I go and pop the toast into the toaster. I like the french term for eggs like this: baveuse.
Keep folding. Turning.
Grab kitchen scissors and start adding chives. At first I think I’ve added too much. It smells strongly of onions for a minute, but once I turn and fold again, I realize I can put more. I do.
Toast is done. As are the eggs. Perfect timing.
Off the heat they go. Butter toast quickly. I’m less impressed with only having store-bought bread, but that’s not what is important.
Eggs go on toast. Open up the closed chive blossoms, and place them gently on top of the mound of perfectly scrambled eggs.
There are no clean knives in the drawer (don’t forget to do the dishes, that’s why you filled the sink earlier) so grab a steak knife. Sit down at the kitchen table, open a magazine. I start reading and absent-mindedly shovelling food into my hungry belly when I realize what I am doing. Stop. Breathe. Slow down.
The windows are open. I barely read the story in the magazine, only getting about two paragraphs in. I’m enjoying lunch too much to care about what I should be reading.