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.
