soapboxdiner

Egg fu yung

Eggs. The first and most hateful food in my vocabulary. Nasty sulfur-tasting balls of homogenous slime filled with running slicks of yellow cholesterol. It is beyond me how a single person could actually enjoy the taste and consistency of them.

I woke today... my first thought upon opening my eyes a memory.

Our table at the Chinese restaurant. Silk orchids in a dusty vase in the third booth along the back wall. Me on the west side looking towards the inevitable aquarium in the lobby, HIM in front of me in the east seat.

I ate chow mein with hesitation, him his egg fu yung. The first and only person I have ever known to actually eat the 6 x 6 x 2 inch slabs of scrabbled masses, all slathered in gravy. How could I be expected to eat, faced with that?

Later, back at our place (the Motel 6 we had taken as our weekend residence - being too young and flighty to make our cohabitation permanent), lying tummys-down, feet swinging in the air, heads at the bed foot watching Fred Astair movies. Laughing and laughing. And left-over egg fu yung between us.

Making him brush his teeth to wash that smell from his mouth before we'd take our evening walk on the waterfront. How else could I show the setting sun my adoration of him with boardwalk hugs and kisses, if not for washing the egg from his mouth?

All the sensations are burned into my memory. And all I have to show is egg fu yung on my face.

9:21 am - 08.04.02
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