Breakfast existentialism at its finest.
“I have chosen battlefields faster than I chose those eggs.
She refilled my coffee & said she'd come back. It was the second refill. I had been deciding for 9 minutes.
The man on the next stool leaned over. "Just say over easy, man.”
USA. A diner. The waitress asked me how I want my eggs, and my mind went completely blank.
"How do you want your eggs, hon?"
Want. How do I WANT them. No one has ever asked me this. In my land, the egg arrives as the cook decrees, and you thank the egg, the cook, and your ancestors, in that order.
"Scrambled? Over easy? Sunny side up?" she offered, gently, the way one talks a man down from a roof.
The terms did not help. Over easy — over WHAT, easily? Easy for whom? Sunny side up — these people have named an egg after the dawn. Who does that. I needed time.
I have chosen battlefields faster than I chose those eggs.
She refilled my coffee and said she'd come back. It was the second refill. I had been deciding for nine minutes.
The man on the next stool leaned over. "Just say over easy, man. You can't go wrong."
"And if I CAN go wrong?"
"...it's eggs, buddy."
It's eggs. Eight hundred years of my family training itself to want nothing, and this man dismissed all of it with a fork in his hand. He was right. I will never tell him.
"Sunny side up," I declared, with the weight of a man choosing a path for life. "I will face the sun."
"You got it, hon."
The eggs came. Two small suns on a white plate, looking up at me. Golden. Ridiculous. Exactly what I wanted.
So THAT is what wanting feels like. I had to cross an ocean and hold up a breakfast line to learn it.
The man on the next stool got his check and left. "Good choice," he said.
I have never been more proud of anything.
A man does not ask the eggs to be simple. He only becomes a man who knows what he wants.
Tomorrow: over easy. I am almost ready.