Mashing the back of the fork down on top of the eggs is my favourite part. I love to watch the yellow yolk as it streams out over the toast like syrup. I smile at mum as she comes over to cut the toast and eggs into little pieces for me before heading back to bed. It is the early morning, I am four, and these poached eggs on toast are my favourite meal. There’s just something about the toast, the gooeyness of the egg, and the flavour of the pepper that just captivates the senses. I don’t care that no one is sitting here with me, for I am too immersed in the enjoyment of this moment. The warmth is filling up inside my belly as each tasty bit finds its way into my mouth and I fall in love. Finally the inevitable happens and I have eaten it all. I am saddened once no egg bits remain so I stay seated, staring at my empty plate. Why couldn’t that moment have just lasted a little bit longer?
Today, I am nineteen, and these poached eggs on toast are still my favourite meal. However, my plate need no longer remain empty, for I can reach the stove.
All words and pictures are my own. ©