Fried eggs in particular. I always think—when it’s last minute, and we have no other plans for dinner—that I’ll just make fried egg sandwiches or something and then it never, ever goes well. I mean, in theory, fried eggs are easy enough. They’re so easy that there’s no excuse for getting them wrong—except for when the pan is too hot, or maybe it’s just getting old.
And really, I like for everyone to eat together. We have a rule about not eating until everyone is at the table and with fried eggs that doesn’t really work. And then of course, one person likes them runny, and another likes them over-hard, and one of the kids can really only stomach eggs that are scrambled, so could I just…?
I’m not saying that I can’t make good fried eggs; I’m just saying that in the process I end up losing my shit. I can’t bear, for some reason, to serve an egg with a broken yolk, or an overcooked edge, and David can’t bear to watch me throw them out. Please, he winds up begging, I’ll just…it looks fine…really, I’ll eat anything, he says, which feel condescending when all the eggs in the pan are clearly fucked up.
Maybe you’ve been there. Or maybe you’re thinking, This has nothing to do with writing. And you’re right of course, but you’re also wrong. Because if I get this stressed about not screwing up eggs?
We have galleys of Monsters now, and at some point, I’m going to have to read one—a last chance to make corrections before the book is officially, finally, uncorrectably out. They came on Friday. They are beautiful. I can barely bring myself to look.