Eggs
Humour and Abstract
Eggs. Such a natural thing to eat and yet we fry them into submission, boil them alive, scramble them into obscurity or poach them to oblivion. People who can't cook eggs shouldn't even try, it's sacrilege as far as I'm concerned. Then again my mother always says I've the weirdest concepts, this from the woman who thinks she has to present every meal - even when baked beans on toast - as perfectly as if she were serving a three-star restaurant. Then complains about the effort she's put in as though it's our fault. Therefore I rarely take her opinion seriously, after all the woman is clearly a few clucks short of a chicken. As the white begins to brighten in the pan, the shape irregular like a blob of paint, I smile and listen to the crackle of butter against the snowy membrane. Whilst I let the edges go where they will, spread as far as they can and end up almost covering the pan - when my mother makes eggs she forever prods with the spatula, desperately keeping the pale goo in check, in a perfect circle of a certain size. If it escaped? It was surely ruined in her eyes. I snigger to my pan, she was eccentric, nothing more and nothing less. Now my sister doesn't even like eggs, which I've never understood, even when we were children, but she's never been able to understand why I do like them so I suppose it's an equal confusion between us.
Cakes. Another subject of debate between myself and mother, I say she doesn't beat the mix long enough, she says I beat it too much, I say she doesn't use enough flavouring, she thinks I use too much flavouring. To and fro. That phrase could describe almost every single conversation we've ever had, though it usually ends in a common ground with us merely laughing at each other. The main reason for this inevitable conclusion being because I think she's a nutter and she thinks I'm an argumentative-minded twerp. I'm not purposely arguing with her, it just so happens that usually, nine times out of ten she's wrong. Make that nine and a half. Even as a child I greased the tins with more butter than she recommended, which always let the soft sponge simply slide out with ease, gently landing on the wire rack with a soft thud, its fluffy body left to slowly steam in peace. However she's always been a calorie Nazi and uses too little butter, therefore every time a sponge comes out the oven it has to be thrashed out of the tin like a disobedient child. Though when one pointed this out to her, she retorted that I was nothing like a sponge. She may be mad, but she's damn quick.Children. Something that comes along in most people's lives. I say most - I'm happy to say I'm an exception to this rule. My sister married young, had a child, got divorced a few years later and now lives down the road with her little blonde girl who is currently ten years old. God, that makes me feel ancient. I haven't married yet and am... older than my sister was when she did. However don't be thinking I'm all alone in the world. I have my long-term boyfriend, we just celebrated our tenth year together - in truth calling him my 'boyfriend' feels a little odd considering our age, but saying partner gives the impression he's my lesbian lover. Which he obviously isn't. We've discussed marriage but I think it's a meaningless piece of paper which will inevitably lead to a pricey and sticky legal battle over the kettle. Therefore no marriage for me. He doesn't seem to mind. I've no children and don't plan to obtain any either, being the cool laid back Aunty is more than enough for me. My mother of course disagrees with all of this, preaching time and again that I'll regret it when I'm older. Oh I'm sure I will (sarcasm dripping from ever syllable). Oh yes indeed I'm sure I'll miss at least the first eighteen months of sleepless nights as the little thing screams for the heck of it; two or possibly three years of excrement-filled nappies, the child grinning each time a smell wafts over to me; three or five years taking it to and from a nursery full of other smelly children; and then five onwards of it not doing homework, demanding money, disagreeing, not following my instructions, ignoring my advice, thinking me a senile old woman before shutting me into an old folks' home without a second thought.Damn.
Looking along from stirring my latest chocolate cake I notice the shiny leaflet on my kitchen counter. The picture of a pleasant grassy-hill view below a cheery name where in the foreground sits a happy old couple beneath a blossoming cherry tree. Next to them is a nurse holding a few blankets to keep the old dears warm. All smiling like demented Barbie dolls - it looks a little painful. I can't help but see the picture as something different, the nurse not holding blankets but ropes to tie the old couple down with. Probably the only reason for the the two old biddies sat there smiling is that they've been dead a good few days and haven't moved since, happy to know they were dying and getting free of the place. No one has noticed yet. Surely they'd be starting to smell?
My front door opens, snapping me out of my little reverie. I hear a familiar greeting, I put down the bowl, pluck the leaflet from the counter and chuck it in the bin where it belongs. In that same moment my mother walks in, red-cheeked after walking through the cold wind. Why she didn't drive I'd never know but darn it if I was going to bring it up. Then there would be another eco-friendly speech. Tugging off the coat she's had for a good twenty-five years and still not replaced she smiles and notices the bowl in my arms. I see the cogs turn as her bright eyes calculate how to say it, though each time she says it the same way and each time I reply in the same manner.
"You're not going to use too much butter again are you?"
"Care for some eggs Mum?"
"Eggs?"
"Eggs."
Cakes. Another subject of debate between myself and mother, I say she doesn't beat the mix long enough, she says I beat it too much, I say she doesn't use enough flavouring, she thinks I use too much flavouring. To and fro. That phrase could describe almost every single conversation we've ever had, though it usually ends in a common ground with us merely laughing at each other. The main reason for this inevitable conclusion being because I think she's a nutter and she thinks I'm an argumentative-minded twerp. I'm not purposely arguing with her, it just so happens that usually, nine times out of ten she's wrong. Make that nine and a half. Even as a child I greased the tins with more butter than she recommended, which always let the soft sponge simply slide out with ease, gently landing on the wire rack with a soft thud, its fluffy body left to slowly steam in peace. However she's always been a calorie Nazi and uses too little butter, therefore every time a sponge comes out the oven it has to be thrashed out of the tin like a disobedient child. Though when one pointed this out to her, she retorted that I was nothing like a sponge. She may be mad, but she's damn quick.Children. Something that comes along in most people's lives. I say most - I'm happy to say I'm an exception to this rule. My sister married young, had a child, got divorced a few years later and now lives down the road with her little blonde girl who is currently ten years old. God, that makes me feel ancient. I haven't married yet and am... older than my sister was when she did. However don't be thinking I'm all alone in the world. I have my long-term boyfriend, we just celebrated our tenth year together - in truth calling him my 'boyfriend' feels a little odd considering our age, but saying partner gives the impression he's my lesbian lover. Which he obviously isn't. We've discussed marriage but I think it's a meaningless piece of paper which will inevitably lead to a pricey and sticky legal battle over the kettle. Therefore no marriage for me. He doesn't seem to mind. I've no children and don't plan to obtain any either, being the cool laid back Aunty is more than enough for me. My mother of course disagrees with all of this, preaching time and again that I'll regret it when I'm older. Oh I'm sure I will (sarcasm dripping from ever syllable). Oh yes indeed I'm sure I'll miss at least the first eighteen months of sleepless nights as the little thing screams for the heck of it; two or possibly three years of excrement-filled nappies, the child grinning each time a smell wafts over to me; three or five years taking it to and from a nursery full of other smelly children; and then five onwards of it not doing homework, demanding money, disagreeing, not following my instructions, ignoring my advice, thinking me a senile old woman before shutting me into an old folks' home without a second thought.Damn.
Looking along from stirring my latest chocolate cake I notice the shiny leaflet on my kitchen counter. The picture of a pleasant grassy-hill view below a cheery name where in the foreground sits a happy old couple beneath a blossoming cherry tree. Next to them is a nurse holding a few blankets to keep the old dears warm. All smiling like demented Barbie dolls - it looks a little painful. I can't help but see the picture as something different, the nurse not holding blankets but ropes to tie the old couple down with. Probably the only reason for the the two old biddies sat there smiling is that they've been dead a good few days and haven't moved since, happy to know they were dying and getting free of the place. No one has noticed yet. Surely they'd be starting to smell?
My front door opens, snapping me out of my little reverie. I hear a familiar greeting, I put down the bowl, pluck the leaflet from the counter and chuck it in the bin where it belongs. In that same moment my mother walks in, red-cheeked after walking through the cold wind. Why she didn't drive I'd never know but darn it if I was going to bring it up. Then there would be another eco-friendly speech. Tugging off the coat she's had for a good twenty-five years and still not replaced she smiles and notices the bowl in my arms. I see the cogs turn as her bright eyes calculate how to say it, though each time she says it the same way and each time I reply in the same manner.
"You're not going to use too much butter again are you?"
"Care for some eggs Mum?"
"Eggs?"
"Eggs."
lol Oh my gosh that was funny. :D I completely understand this character. Though my mother’s idea of cooking is take out or hamburger helper. And being an Auntie is definitely the best. Always an enjoyment to read your work. Another wonderful story, as always.