I’m not much of an eggs person.
Sometimes eating them gives me a stomachache. They can be kind of bland. Sometimes I get to thinking of their
biological potential and…well, better we leave that there.
I used to be an eggs person, however, and that was due to my
father. There was a period in my youth
when, in an attempt to get me to stop nagging at him to spend more time with
me, he took me with him on Saturdays into the city, to follow him to whatever jobs
needed stopping into. Some days we’d
stop at DeWitt Clinton High School, where he was the assistant principal, and
I’d sit across from his large wooden desk and watch him work in peeks while
turning pages. Always, always, I had my
books with me. A large canvas bag, laden
with an assortment of books, because one never knew what one was going to want
to read next, right? Somehow, I thought
I’d get through more than one of them but I rarely did. Still, it was nice to have options. Back to this office. Sometimes he would make phone calls,
sometimes do paperwork. He gave me tours
of the building, took me out back to the football field. He told me about how one time he’d received a
call from the third floor telling him there was someone with a gun up there,
and how he’d heaved himself, gentle heft that he carried, out of his
Administrator’s Chair and headed up the stairs – only to get to the second
floor and stop midflight, realizing what he was doing, and then head back down
to call the police. But that was him –
first instinct, step in.
Then he might take me to Columbia University’s Bakersfield Campus,
where the athletes worked out. He was
the Head Coach for the Track and Field team.
When I was younger, he would take me up to the locker room and hide me
in his tiny office, but as I aged, he made me stay downstairs. In nice weather, I’d sit on the base of the
stone lion out front of the field house.
In colder weather, I’d read on the long bench that housed the poles for
the pole vault. In the winter, we’d go
to practice inside “the bubble,” a large dome covering a track and all the
various pits, sand and sponge, and I’d watch the boys go through their
practices, listening to the echoes of their voices as they grunted and called
and whooped. Sometimes these echoes
lulled me to sleep in the high jump pit, where I’d nap until the high jumpers
very kindly asked me to leave. Some of
the athletes flirted with young me. I felt
like a little sister to others. But I
blushed no matter who spoke to me, and they laughed and went further than I
knew how to recognize.
In the fall, we’d go to Columbia University home football games, and
watch the mess of a marching band scramble into place. I thought they were the only college band in
existence to ever do this, but I was shaken of that naiveté later when I went
to college myself.
And then there were cross country meets at Van Cortlandt Park, where my
father let me hold his extra stop watch and he pretended I was doing something
official for him. And away meets at
Princeton or Rutgers, taking the bus with excited boy athletes, eating with
them in college cafeterias, riding back in a quieter, stinkier bus, the sun
already down. There was a Greek diner
around the corner from Bakersfield, and sometimes we’d go there for lunch – my
father with his cheeseburger, me with my BLT and fries, which he’d always
steal.
Sometimes he’d have insurance calls to make – his third job – and
somehow we’d always run into someone he knew on the street, and they’d talk and
talk and talk. I didn’t mind, though,
because I was with him. And then those
trips ended, but the reason behind that is for another time because it wasn’t
pretty and has no place here.
You’re wondering, where the hell are the eggs? Here they are. On the way into the city, barely on our way
at all, we’d stop at the Nanuet Diner.
I’d have the same thing every morning:
two eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon, chocolate milk. Sometimes I didn’t want the same thing, but
he made such a big deal about my having the same thing every time – whenever
he’d tell stories about these trips to friends, this was a point he’d never
skip – that I hated to disappoint him.
He’d always steal a piece of bacon, a bite of home fries.
I hated that. Had he asked, no
problem. But he never asked. It was his joke. So I let him do it, and I seethed – but how
lucky was I to be doing this in the first place, how could I not let him?
When I grew past these trips, I grew away from eggs for breakfast, and
it was decades before I started eating them again, usually in another form,
until finally I gave in and tried it again – tea instead of chocolate milk –
and have had it some times since.
Recently, I’ve been feeling the desire for scrambled eggs. I know what you’re thinking – just make
some. But no, I have to admit, I cannot make the
kind of eggs I want. The best scrambled
eggs in the known universe, hands down, belong to my former mother-in-law. How I miss her. The saddest part of letting my marriage go
was losing her. Not just her eggs,
either, or her other incredible dishes – best cook in the world, don’t let
anyone tell you otherwise. Generous to a
fault, kind, stubborn, loathe to accept help and quick to offer it. I resented her for a time because she knew
about my ex’s affair for several months and didn’t tell me, and she sided with
him – of course, she did – when we parted, and she accepted his side of the
story as the truth without asking for clarification. She had been my mother for close to 30 years
and it felt like an abandonment to have her just leave, though now I understand
why she had to.
I could never figure out the secret behind her scrambled eggs. I’d watch each time we went to her house for
brunch. It didn’t seem as if she did
anything special, but there they were, the best eggs you could imagine. I’d lean through the cut-out between the
kitchen and the dining room and we’d talk and I’d spy. On everything she did. Everything.
As I said, recently I’ve wanted scrambled eggs. I take my son Ian to breakfast every week at
the same diner, where they know him and make a fuss over him and it warms me to
see him so happy which is why we return week after week. The food isn’t spectacular, but it’s decent
enough. And a few weeks ago, I asked for
scrambled eggs, envisioning a pile of the puffy bits of cloud-warmth and love
I’d had at my mother-in-law’s table. I
was so disheartened when instead was put before me what looked like an omelet
without its heart, a flat and egg-colored.
Clearly, this was pre-mixed omelet egg – nothing wrong with that –
poured onto the grill and left to cook until it was done. No scramble involved. I was so sad.
Which brings me to today.
I’ve been home recovering from surgery this past week, and while I have
had the best of friends who have brought by food and love and have texted and
emailed and Facebooked their love and support to me, today is quiet and I was
feeling alone and achy and a little worried about going back to work
tomorrow. I haven’t been hungry but I
knew I had to eat something in order to keep mending so I went down to the
refrigerator to see what I had. Well, I
had plenty: leftover Thanksgiving food
from friends and my son David, takeout and homemade foods also brought over by
friends, foods I’d gathered before the surgery.
Nothing looked remotely appealing.
I stood there – you know the stance, the one that says if you stand
there long enough, something will appear that will solve all your problems and
send your taste buds, and your mood, to nirvana. Nothing appeared.
But I could see in the back of the refrigerator a container of leftover
canned gelled cranberry sauce that had been there for more than a month. Remembering – was it last year or the year
before? – having food poisoned myself on the same thing when I’d eaten in late
December or even January the cranberry sauce I’d created from scratch for
Thanksgiving, I determined it had to go.
I reached in back, pulled the container forward, and brought with it three
other containers which fell to the floor.
Of these, two were takeout containers – nothing lost there – and the
other was a six-pack of eggs, three of them left after last week’s pie-baking. Tentatively, I turned the box over and opened
it. Two of the eggs had small cracks in
them, the other was untouched. Lunch was
decided.
I stood at the stove. I threw in
a little clarified butter – just a little, because I no longer have a gall
bladder and don’t know how my body will react to such things yet – added the
two eggs, and scrambled. I thought about
my mother-in-law. I thought about my
father, and our outings, and how everyone brings to the table the summary of
their experiences. I thought about how
impossible it was that our country could have elected to the Presidency a man
who could make fun of the disabled. But
mostly, I scrambled.
Were they good? Yes, and they
satisfied that need I’d been feeling.
Were they as good as my mother-in-law’s?
Not by a baker’s dozen. But
that’s okay, because I’ve had them. I
have the memory of them. Maybe someday,
fingers crossed, I’ll have them again.
I miss my father today. I miss
my mother today, and my sister, and my in-laws, and my family of children at
all their ages. I miss having someone
here to make sure I’m taking care of myself, or who is taking care of me and
making me feel safe. And I feel cared
for by my family of the heart, the friends who have stepped up to ask, to
offer, to bring, to collect, to shelter.
And I’ve had my scrambled eggs.
