Everything started out great. Two eggs from Wednesday’s Farmer’s Market, round and brown and full of potential. Nutty, grainy, bread, all set for the toaster. I give the first egg a tentative tap against my counter, and immediately realize it was a bad tap, too half-hearted, not committed enough. I tap again, and struggle to contain the goo leaking from the shattered shell. As the egg hits the pan, you can imagine what sort of shitshow ensues. I dig a few shards of shell out and look at the bleak swirl of yellow and white, and see that yeah, the yolk is beyond repair. I have another egg left though, so my 11 o’clock lunch is still salvageable. I crack it into the pan without incident, drip some water in, and cover my mess up with a lid. I insert my slice of bread into the toaster. Then I go and do some shit and only return when I hear the toaster pop. It’s underdone, but I don’t have time to worry about that, because, shit, the eggs! I remove the frying pan lid, and tentatively poke the yolk with a wooden spoon. It feels like silly putty, not like a water balloon.
Sigh. As I eat my listless, underdone toast and rubbery, overdone eggs, I feel empty. More empty than before lunch, when I was hungry.
It’s 142 degrees, or at least the 1 zillion percent humidity or 2 trillion percent dew point average makes it feel like 142 degrees, and I just got back from a run (way to work the exercise, me!) I’m psyched for a smoothie.
I go through the motions, plopping some yogurt in, throwing some frozen acai in, throwing some kale in, sprinkling some chia seeds in (basically including everything a white girl Whole Foods caricature would include in her smoothie) and dousing the whole thing with water. But wait, are we missing a critical member of the smoothie gang? We sure are. No bananas to be had. No creamy, kale-cutting sweetness to fool my tastebuds into thinking they’re being hit with a vaguely tropical and refreshing drink when in actuality they’re being drowned in pureed salad. I go forth in my banana-less state.
Upon my first tentative sip, a bit of leaf gets stuck in my teeth (so big I’m forced to CHEW it), and I mourn the loss of what could’ve been a mildly tasty, healthy snack, and take a deep breath so as not to fully taste my wet green sludge.
Oh papardelle, you could’ve been savored as little forkfuls of heaven, but instead, you are nothing but mushy, lifeless (albeit buttery) carbs, your romantic al dente appeal ruined by time. I plow ahead, swirling your broken bits onto my fork, chewing your starchiness like a cow chewing cud as you turn into a ball of expanding flour in my stomach.
Overcooked papardelle, you aren’t worth it.