In this year that I decided not to make resolutions, I have set my mind free to tinker.
Which is exactly what I was doing as I prepared eggs to scramble. I was tinkering with the idea of attending an outdoor opera performance at Huntington Gardens. Picturing myself seated in the Chinese Garden, music caressing my culture-starved soul as pink and white lotuses waved to me.
Unfettered by thoughts of the pandemic that curtailed the Wednesday afternoon concerts in the Chinese Garden that BB and I had attended regularly, I was able to create my own scenario.
Somewhere in that unfettering, I poured orange juice into my egg batter, instead of milk.
At another time in my life, when I might have been bogged down by resolutions and to-do lists, I may have poured the citrus eggs into the sink.
Instead, I was mesmerized by the vivid color of the egg yolk and the juiced orange forming a striking sunset in my glass mixing bowl.
“Why not give it a try?” I said to the butter melting in the frying pan as I poured my orange eggs in and began scrambling. I am always enticed by the sound of the sizzle when eggs relax into the butter. The sounds were the same with orange juice added as they are with milk. Comforting and inviting. I smiled as I scrambled.
By this time, I was feeling very emboldened so I sprinkled a little nutmeg on the eggs, more for color than taste. I was starting to feel like I was creating a painting rather than cooking breakfast. And that was a big part of the fun.
While I wouldn’t say this combination would be to everyone’s taste, probably not even to my own had I not been absorbed in my eggs as art creation, I will say this. By following my unrestrained musings, I had unwittingly gifted myself with a renewed sense of whimsy.
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As I washed the dishes, I was contemplating frozen iguanas falling out of trees.
From their cut glass vase on the kitchen counter, purple tulips, stretched to full bloom, bowed approvingly to my surrender to silly.
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