Tonight I couldn’t stop thinking about eggs. Fried eggs specifically. Fried eggs with drippy, runny yolks on top of a pile of sautéed green things with salt and pepper, and just a little more salt. I sat in the lecture theatre tonight trying to engage in active thought about personal essay forms and Montaigne and Didion and Dillard, but all I could think of was eggs.
I don’t think it really was the egg specifically; more, it was what the egg represented: comfort, curling up under a green and floral motley blanket made by Mum, doing some writing while the TV plays some British police show or another in the background. I wanted my bowl of steamed greens, and my runny, runny yolk, and a cup of green tea to soothe my beating heart at the end of another full and wonderful day.
Now I sit here, at an hour a little too late to blog anything particularly substantial because of a brain drained by discussing the central argument and tone of the fabulous Joan Didion’s ‘Goodbye to All That’ (check out this book for the essay and other wonderful writings). And I write about the want for eggs, and tea, and comfort. And I have had all three. And I am happy and ready to rest my eyes.
Now, off to bed with all of you and I’ll see you in the morning.
Sweet dreams dear readers.
