Love Letters & Moderate Stalking
All one can really hope for in is life is something warm to nibble on while the sun rises over the United States’ armpit.
That’s how I feel anyway on this first week back to work after a long holiday weekend. Labor Day traditionally marks the end of summer and white clothing, but tradition is for squares who take to issue with my office attire of a post-Labor Day itsy bitsy teeny weeny white bikini.
(I jest. It is yellow, of course. I am not an America-hater like my father.)
Today’s egg is brought to you by the letter 6 and my favorite teacher with the best hugs, Mrs. Debby “Tooth Burglar” Slane. Debby has been a fan of my writing since the publishing of my first work “Squiggly Line in Red Crayola Crayon” and continues to be a beacon of support through my commuter egg conundrums.
One morning as I was updating the Kardashian archives, I received a message from Debby who I assumed only drank margaritas with crushed Xanax around the rim upon escaping my mother’s dictatorship after 23 years.
An appropriately-moist egg nestled in my favorite foliage, sealed in a tortilla love letter? "I could get into that", I thought aloud as I replayed Kylie’s Snapchat Story a third time.
The process appeared foolproof, time-tested and true by someone who required ample energy to chase snot-nosed brats around a zoo whose keeper is a Kindergarten Hitler.
Oh, and it was, it was.
All that you do, per Debby’s explicit instructions, is bring a small pot to boil, drop the egg in, reduce the water to medium heat, and let it rumble around for 7-8 minutes while you take a power nap on the counter. I transferred mine to a mini ice bath until it was cool enough to handle while I prepared the packaging. My whole wheat tortilla went in the microwave for 15 seconds, was transferred to the counter where I gave it a schmear of Mediterranean Olive hummus and sprinkled on some torn spinach and parsley. The egg had cooled down by this point, so I gave it a light whack on the butcher block to roll off the shell, and made an incision to butterfly my egg so that it would lie flat in its priority packaging.
What a surprise and delight it was to discover a mildly firm yolk at the heart of my chicken turd!
It was set, but not chalky as I so detest, and ready to mingle with its hummus travel companion. Since I am a Generation X technophile who has not sent a letter since my last note to Santa, it took some imagination to figure out how to origami an envelope. My conclusion: two equal folds towards the middle, a 1/3 crease at the top, and the bottom 2/3 rolled up and over to finish the seal with love.
Taste: 👅👅👅👅— This Mediterranean Olive hummus from Tribe might be my new favorite. I wish I had schmeared just a bit more. Tomatoes might have been a nice touch, but after a mishap that occurred the evening before involving my newly sharpened knife and bacon I decided to stay away from sharp objects before at least one cup of coffee.
Portability: 🚂🚂🚂🚂🚂 — As Sia once said, “Tortilla girls don’t get hurt, can’t feel anything. When will I learn? I scarf it down, scarf it down.”
Likelihood of Trying Again: 💁💁💁💁💁 — Many hugs to Big Momma for this stationary solution. It saved me many an explanation as to the questionable stains that pooled in my crotchal region by 9 AM on previous trials.
An older woman across the aisle from me blew up an inflatable pillow with one puff and placed it under her bum in a similar fashion to that of Little Miss Muffet sitting on her tuffet, eating her curds away (Except swap out curds for a Paperwhite Kindle whose font can be measured in increments the size of my thumb. I hope that her poor eyesight will forgive my occasional but prolonged staring.)
A woman who sat in front of me moments later changed the whole tortilla game when she pulled out THIS SHIT.
Behold; a baton of what appeared to be turkey, cheese, and some other topping that I might have recognized if my phone hadn’t been in the way sneaking pictures.
The thing about this meat stick was that there was a thin layer of filling in every bite as opposed to the obtrusive burrito fold wherein the good stuff is bookended by a thick ball of tortilla that sticks to the roof of your mouth like the communion wafer at church.
This lady’s innovative strombilla (stromboli x tortilla — deal with it) inspired Thursday’s egg stick.
I mashed hard boiled eggs with Carrot & Ginger Tribe hummus, smeared it across the tortilla coated with fresh spinach, and made it rain minced parsley all up on that bitch. I began with one minuscule fold up from the bottom and rolled the tortilla ever so gently into a schmear swirl.
Taste: 👅👅👅— Egg mixture, good. Unexpectedly stale tortilla, not so good. However, there was a little bit of something in every bite which would be much more satisfying had I not been eating sheetrock.
Portability: 🚂🚂🚂🚂🚂 — The baton held its shape as I ran the marathon with my fellow commuters from one side of the platform to the other upon being told that a train blocking our path "ain't moving anytime soon".
Likelihood of Trying Again:
💁💁💁💁💁 — I feel safe on public transit with my eggsaber.