[Guest contribution from Rebecca Fuller]

Eggs have been a staple in my diet since I figured out I could cook them on my very own at the good ol’ age of eleven. Now, as a twenty-year-old, I often don’t think twice about the process anymore.

Crack. Scramble. Add cheese. Eat.

But the other day, as I was thinking about what kind of eggs to make for breakfast, I decided to slow down and think about the beauty of cooking them. I picked up an egg and wondered at the cold, hard shell, and its gooey contents inside. I listened to the sizzling of the oil in the pan, preparing to meet its match. I felt the absolute creative freedom that comes with an egg and a hot pan. Should I fry the egg? Scramble? Make an omelet?

I decided to fry my egg this time. I cracked the shell against the pan. It cracked perfectly, and I emptied out its contents into the hot pan, backing up in case any oil had the audacity to spray my way. I then put the lid on the pan to let the steam work its cooking magic.

Five minutes later, I was sitting down with a hot cup of tea, and a fried egg on top of an English muffin with a slice of Canadian bacon between the two. It was delightful.

That’s the beautiful thing about eggs: absolute culinary creativity.

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