I have a plan. It always works out in my head, but never does outside it. But every time, I go about doing the very same things convinced that this time would be it. This time I'll make the perfect fried egg ‐ hot from the pan with just the right amount of butter and cooked to perfection, accompanied by the two pieces of toast, golden and crispy, the likes of which the world has never seen. The plate, the fork and spoon (the knife is a pointless eating instrument), the salt and pepper shakers, a glass of water; all ready.
Timing is everything. If I could manipulate time, I'd be eating perfect egg‐toast meals all the time. Unfortunately, I can't and that is why I have a plan. The ultimate experience lasts all of ten minutes. Five minutes to cook and five to eat. Compromise on either and all is lost.
I digress. You see, I am extremely passionate about my egg cooking and eating. But this blog post is more about plans, made both consciously and without any consent whatsoever of the conscious mind, that never work out. The perfect bulls-eye does not exist. I know this. I have broken the yoke, burnt the bread, forgotten the bread altogether (the list in endless so I'll just say ‐) and so on. Then why do I crave it? Why is it that I let myself believe that just because I deserve it, I would achieve the impossible? And why do I settle for something short of this; eating cold eggs, in dark rooms, without enough pepper, cooked in oil? Because the stupid egg would feel bad if I didn't eat it. And because I would feel bad if that it would feel bad, sometimes I would feel bad just because I didn't eat it.
But do you know what the worst part is? (It isn't that bad when it seems like I have a chance. The pan isn't too hot, the butter is melted and I crack my egg on it, the yoke is intact. I run to the toaster, stuff my slices of bread in and return to my egg. I adjust the heat. Everything is going well. But then, my egg gets cooked but the toast isn't out yet. This is okay, is it perfect? no. Can it be fixed though? yes. I turn the stove off but let the egg stay on the pan, cooking it verrrrrry slowly and keeping it warm until the bread it done.) The worst scenario is when you the egg is on the pan and you're about to deploy the bread only to find that the last two slices of bread have mold on them. So your mind has seen the near perfect future, everything you need is available, but at the last moment you find that that wasn't true. You really didn't have everything. It breaks your heart. Since I've killed the almost baby chicken anyway, I eat it despite it tasting horrible, I don't have a choice.
On such days, I'd like to turn to corn flakes. And since we're talking worst case, there wouldn't be any milk and the corn flakes would have gone bad and the shops would be shut. Don't you just love these days. What do you do then? Whine about it to the world through some messed up metaphor because in doing that you parcel up all your horribleness in a blog-post and present it to anyone who will read.
Timing is everything. If I could manipulate time, I'd be eating perfect egg‐toast meals all the time. Unfortunately, I can't and that is why I have a plan. The ultimate experience lasts all of ten minutes. Five minutes to cook and five to eat. Compromise on either and all is lost.
I digress. You see, I am extremely passionate about my egg cooking and eating. But this blog post is more about plans, made both consciously and without any consent whatsoever of the conscious mind, that never work out. The perfect bulls-eye does not exist. I know this. I have broken the yoke, burnt the bread, forgotten the bread altogether (the list in endless so I'll just say ‐) and so on. Then why do I crave it? Why is it that I let myself believe that just because I deserve it, I would achieve the impossible? And why do I settle for something short of this; eating cold eggs, in dark rooms, without enough pepper, cooked in oil? Because the stupid egg would feel bad if I didn't eat it. And because I would feel bad if that it would feel bad, sometimes I would feel bad just because I didn't eat it.
But do you know what the worst part is? (It isn't that bad when it seems like I have a chance. The pan isn't too hot, the butter is melted and I crack my egg on it, the yoke is intact. I run to the toaster, stuff my slices of bread in and return to my egg. I adjust the heat. Everything is going well. But then, my egg gets cooked but the toast isn't out yet. This is okay, is it perfect? no. Can it be fixed though? yes. I turn the stove off but let the egg stay on the pan, cooking it verrrrrry slowly and keeping it warm until the bread it done.) The worst scenario is when you the egg is on the pan and you're about to deploy the bread only to find that the last two slices of bread have mold on them. So your mind has seen the near perfect future, everything you need is available, but at the last moment you find that that wasn't true. You really didn't have everything. It breaks your heart. Since I've killed the almost baby chicken anyway, I eat it despite it tasting horrible, I don't have a choice.
On such days, I'd like to turn to corn flakes. And since we're talking worst case, there wouldn't be any milk and the corn flakes would have gone bad and the shops would be shut. Don't you just love these days. What do you do then? Whine about it to the world through some messed up metaphor because in doing that you parcel up all your horribleness in a blog-post and present it to anyone who will read.
