Though I don't think about it often, but there isn't a lot of romance in my marriage. But, sometimes my husband surprises me. He made me soft-boiled eggs for breakfast one morning.
If you don’t see how that’s romantic, then get the idea of
kisses and intimacy out of your head. I
looked up “romantic” on Dictionary.com (yes, it’s easier than picking up that
big, red Webster’s Dictionary because I can cut and paste) and the fifth
definition is:
“displaying or expressing love or strong affection.”
Okay, if you don’t think that applies to my husband making
me soft-boiled eggs for breakfast, please read on.
I haven’t had soft-boiled eggs in… well, in ages. My husband hasn’t made me soft-boiled eggs in
even longer ages.
There I was, sitting at my computer, looking through
Facebook, and I felt him standing near my desk.
I saw he was holding something in his hand and when I looked
at him he handed me a small plate with my surprise breakfast. He smiled at my stunned face and walked away
as I croaked out a “Thank you!” to his retreating back. Yes, croaked. My typing fingers were awake and warmed up
but my speaking voice was still groggy.
I took the plate and as I was still trying to take in this
delight, I saw a big hand put a mug of hot tea on my desk. I think I croaked another “thanks” but I’m
not sure.
Soft-boiled eggs are amazing things. Eggs themselves, in or out of the shell, are
fascinating things, considering what they are – the potential for future life
all enclosed in a thin, incredibly durable shell. We have had chickens for several years and
eggs take on a whole new meaning when you have your own chickens, but that’s a
whole other post.
That smooth, white (we prefer brown, but these were white)
egg sitting firm in an egg-cup. Okay, it
was a shot glass. Yes, shot glasses make
great egg cups and since I don’t use our cute shot glasses for taking shots of
hard liquor, using them for eggs makes sense.
One egg in the cup, one, waiting, on the side, and two slices of
buttered, sourdough bread, and bit of salt and pepper in a pile on the
side. Wow.
I picked up the teaspoon and whacked the cupped egg on the
top of its remarkable shell. It’s been
awhile since I did this, so I was tentative and did not hit the egg exactly
right. It took a few smaller whacks to
cause enough delightfully intricate cracks to appear so I could take the top
off. As I scooped off the top, taking
care to avoid small pieces of shell falling into the luscious interior, the
alluring scent of freshly cooked egg filled my consciousness. My mouth actually began to water.
I scooped out the bit of egg in the top and brought it to my
mouth as if I were about to taste the most sumptuous delicacy ever prepared by
the finest chef. The simple, yet evocative
taste pervaded my mouth and slid over my waiting tongue.
I pushed the spoon tip into the steaming egg waiting for me
in its cup. An unexpected eruption of
yolk spurted out and some dribbled down the side. I quickly grabbed a piece of the buttered
bread and caught the running yolk before it had lost its warmth. I took a bite and the delightfully chewy
bread combined with the silky, rich butter and the earthy flavor of the yolk
combined to bring to mind taste memories from before I was born.
Unaware of my surroundings, I took a sip of strong, hot tea
to perfect the moment. That flawless
moment was followed by many others as I slowly consumed this gift from my dear
husband. Facebook was forgotten during
those long minutes of pleasure. Firm egg
white, rich yolk, buttered bread, and tea became my morning world and it
completed me for a time.
I would say that allowing me to enjoy that was “displaying
or expressing love or strong affection” on the part of my husband. Thank you, dear.
Okay, I’ll admit it.
I like the simple pleasures; though I certainly won’t say no to complex
pleasures – unless they are illegal or immoral of course.
