It is breakfast. It is lunch. It is everything.
Tell me, o muse, of that ingenious sandwich.
Ding! The toaster oven. Step lightly, fingers! The bread is still hot.
Now: Four soft slices of creamy avocado, the richest of fruits. A sliver of sharp cheddar. Zig zag, zig zag, Sriracha.
And the egg! O, the egg! Hissing in the pan, crisping at the edges. Dash of salt, dash of pepper.
That first bite. Heaven.
Respite from the dull ache of overindulgence. Reward on a cloudy Saturday, 10 a.m., after a long week of toil. Comfort in times of sorrow and need.
From the deli, unreliable. Inferior. But still good. Always good. Peeling back the foil, the tiniest puff of steam. There, at the desk, a respite. Two dabs at the keyboard grease. Today rules.
Scramble, you have no place here. Omelet, go. Waffle, your very name is a joke.
Give me toast and broken yolk. An egg sandwich 30 years in the making, born of trial and error, of fits and starts.
O muse, I am dying just thinking about it!
It is breakfast, it is lunch.
It is everything.
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