MY YOLK IS EASY; MY BURDENS ARE WHITES
How the simple act of eating an egg reminds us of life with each bite Dustin Parkes
If we are to think seriously about the egg, we are most likely drawn to its wondrous versatility: the many ways one can cook it ( baked, boiled, poached, etc.), or all of the other foods that would be nothing without it (batters, doughs, pastas, etc.). Perhaps, if we’re feeling a little less practical, we might contemplate the egg’s seemingly ubiquitous use as a metaphor. From the holy trinity ( shell, white and yolk form one egg) to the celebration of springtime and new life ( Happy Easter!), t he egg can be flipped to symbolize so much.
To me, however, the egg represents a mix of both the practical and the ethereal. It may seem twee or overly dramatic to suggest, but eggs have always been there for me. Literally, I’ve eaten eggs my entire life. But also, figuratively, eggs have come to embody my growth as a human. For this, I would like to nominate the enduring egg as the ultimate form of comfort food.
The first solid food I ate with cutlery by myself was a scrambled egg. I’m aware of this arcane bit of personal trivia because I’m a firstborn, and as such, every bit of my early life was documented in photographs – a blessing/curse that is typically bestowed less and less frequently the further down the birth order one enters a family. In the piece of Polaroid evidence, I’m seated at a table, wearing a Popeye and Olive Oyl sweatshirt. In front of me, left to right, is my bubba ( a blue bottle in the shape of what would generously be described as a meerkat), a plate of scrambled eggs and a toy pistol (on which my left hand remains). A child’s fork with NHL team logos sits on the plate while – what I can only guess to be – the matching knife is in my mouth. It’s obvious from the expression on my face that the knife had just successfully ferried a generous helping of eggs to its intended destination.
If we are most comfortable when surrounded by the familiar, then by this experience alone – one I’m certain to be far from unique – eggs would be a top candidate for comfort food. But of course, the saga continues through childhood: the universal embarrassment of being packed an egg salad sandwich for school lunch, the likelihood of eggs being the first thing you ever learned to cook, the Halloween in Grade Five when you went trick- or- treating with the bad kids and egged Mr. Dolman’s aluminum siding. Eggs were there, too, as you haphazardly entered adulthood: the first time you grocery shopped for yourself and bought a dozen without ever thinking to check for cracks, the diner order you made after drinking cheap beer all night over conversations that you earnestly believed had the potential to change the world, the dish you prepared the morning after someone special slept over for the first time – making eggs for another person is likely the most restrained romantic overture we commonly make.
There are two anecdotes from my early adulthood – both involving eggs – that nicely sum up being a university student and finally, after four long years, not being a university student. For those who don’t come from a wealthy family, money is a constant concern while studying. I lived hand-to-mouth for most of those days, with what seemed like very short arms. I’m not looking for sympathy by saying that – many had and still have it worse than me. However, there was a weekend in second year in which I had no money and fewer than a half- dozen eggs to make it through. After staving off hunger for as long as I could, I decided to fry two eggs from my rations. I cracked the first on the hot pan, and as it began to cook, I grabbed the second. Before I could crack it, the egg slipped out, and in my desperate attempt to rescue it from the floor, I knocked over the pan that was cooking the first. Both eggs were rendered inedible. I had completely erased this moment from my memory, until coming across a similar story in Paul Auster’s Red Notebook.
Two years later, I was fortunate enough to find work immediately after graduation. The weekend after receiving my first paycheque, I spent money as though I were a king. Full cases of beer, takeout food and actually going out to bars: it seemed like the depraved decadence of a Roman emperor ( one of the off- kilter ones) at the time. Nothing, however, symbolizes my lack of fiscal responsibility more than waking up hungover on a Sunday morning, and ordering eggs (sunny side up) from the closest open establishment for pickup. I still remember the questioning voice on the other end of the phone when I placed the order and the kitchen staff who came out to witness the laziest person in the world pick up their eggs to go.
Flush with funds or broke as a joke, eggs were there. And then, further into adulthood: at some point – after gaining a little more maturity – my perception of eggs transferred from being a mere source of quick and inexpensive sustenance to a luxury that required time and care. Instead of soaking up hangovers, eggs were prepared for visiting friends at brunch. Rather than finding the fastest way to render a raw egg edible, I’d carefully cook a slow scramble or take the necessary time to create hollandaise sauce for perfectly timed poached eggs. But in all instances, the egg was there to provide comfort.
This dichotomous relationship with the egg seems an all- too- perfect match for its design. Its whites (protein with few calories and no fat) represent nourishment in its most bare form, plain subsistence; while its yolks (rich and flavourful) symbolize extravagance, a sort of fatty opulence. That these two opposite parts of one whole would co- exist inside of a shell ensures there is no better metaphor for life: we live through ups and downs, mixing the mundane with the extraordinary.
That the physical form of this emblem surrounds us on plates throughout our existence ensures that nothing we consume will ever be as comforting: eating an egg is a inescapable reminder of life.
“PROBABLY ONE OF THE MOST PRIVATE THINGS IN THE WORLD IS AN EGG BEFORE IT IS BROKEN.” — M.F.K. FISHER, AUTHOR OF THE ART OF EATING