Sometimes I worry about things changing. Of course it can be difficult. But we’re always given the tools. So when I’m in the throws of it, I just try to remember egg salad.
My first years in France, I searched for white eggs. We just don’t have them. But the Easter eggs? How will I dye them? That problem was solved, because I couldn’t find the dye either. It took me awhile, but the answers were at hand. With combinations of water colors and non-toxic paint (and I’ve eaten enough of it through the years to know, just by licking my paint brush) I have found a way to make, what I think, are beautiful Easter eggs.
It takes me hours to paint them. Many joyful hours. Today I will have to crack them. Throw the shells away. But that doesn’t take away the joy, it only brings on new. I like egg salad a lot.
I wrote it before, and I’ll say it again, “I believe perfection knows no time constraints, because the time spent with you has been perfect.”
Life continues to change. We are asked to make lemonade and sometimes egg salad. And through it all, we find, we learn, again and again, life can be so delicious!
If I worried about anything, it certainly wasn’t the raw egg in the yellow cake batter my mother occasionally mixed up, along with the aid of boxed Betty Crocker, or Duncan Hines. Begging for the beater in mid-whirr. I sandwiched myself between apron and cupboard, inching my fingers toward the spinning bowl, my mother trying to push me out of danger with one thigh. She spun the dial back to stop, and cranked the neck, lifting the dripping attachments just out of my reach. She unplugged the mixer, because she thought of things like that — ways to protect me. Perhaps she had been bitten or pinched before. Or maybe it was other dangers lived through that told her to beware. With the power off, I felt like it had all been given to me. I cupped both hands as the elixir dripped into my palms. We had spoons, even a spatula, but I couldn’t be bothered with either. She then pulled the beaters out of the neck and handed me the first. Licking one rung left two pale yellow lines above and below my mouth. I was a warrior — a “battered” warrior.
Of course we never used those words, because they would have been too close. Too close to the actual battles ahead. And if there were warnings, would we have even heard them? Over the mixer’s motor? (I’m not sure anyone can, or does.) The laughter rang as she wiped a line of batter from my face and tasted it? Sweet was the taste of no real fear.
I don’t know if he left that day, my father. Did the cake get baked? Did we eat it? Did it get thrown away? This yellow cake of innocence? I don’t remember hearing the mixer again. Did we sell it at the garage sale? Probably. It was big. Too big to fit in our future small apartment. Too loud for those above us, or beside us. She would have thought of things like that. Not disturbing the neighbors in the duplex. The fourplex. The eventual apartment.
We never really baked again. But she filled my palms. First with security. Her hand in mine. And when the hunger returned, for something sweet, when the baked-in trust awakened and said it was ok to enjoy things, the laughter came as well, by the handful, by the heart full. Sweet laughter. It rang over rumor. It rang over fear. And it WAS sweet. Not like at first — when I didn’t know about the “eggs” — when I didn’t know that bad things could happen. (Once you know about them, it’s hard to forget.) But sweet nonetheless. Even baking now, I don’t give it worry — it’s just a part of it. And life is still so very sweet.
It’s happened once or twice before — just as it did this morning. Walking on the path, it nearly stopped me in my tracks. This sweet taste in my mouth. So clear. So delicious. So transportive. Yellow cake batter. The taste tickled my tongue. Inside my cheeks. I put my finger to my lip. Surely it was there. It was so real. My finger came back dry. But the smile remained.
The certainty of gravel remains beneath my feet. I stand unafraid. She is still finding a way to protect me — she still thinks of things like that. Reminding me. Pointing me to all things good. And the laughter rings above the birds, singing “Fill your heart. Feed your soul. Taste this life.”
You’ve probably seen it if you watch the Food Network, or Youtube. To test the new students or employees, the head chef asks them to make a French omelette. It sounds simple. I suppose we’ve all thrown eggs in a pan. What could be the big difference, right? I decided to give it a try. I melted the butter in the heating pan. Whisked the eggs with just a pinch of salt. Poured them into the hot skillet. Using a spatula, moved the eggs around, almost in a scramble. Then flattened it out gently. While the top remained a bit wiggly, I gently made the first fold. Then the second. And the third, rolling it onto the plate. Just a glossing of butter on the top, and as we say, “Voilà!”
Almost anyone can tell you a story that is plot driven. Fill it full of noises and sounds. Oooohs and aaaaahs! The big stories! The big events. But for most of us, our lives contain only a few of these. The majority of our stories are Tuesdays and Thursdays. Not holidays. Not the trips of a lifetime, but the ones to the grocery store. This is not sad. Well, I suppose it could be…if you choose not to find the beauty of the ordinary… you know, if you’re just going to throw the eggs in the pan…
But I don’t want to live like that. I want to Voilà even the simplest of tasks. The simplest of days. I want to be in love during the week. Be excited at home. Find the story along the gravel path. Don’t get me wrong, the Eiffel Tower is pretty spectacular. And it still takes my breath away, but I can say with joy, and certainty, so do the eggs in a pan.
