Girlfriend One was erratic with eggs. One Sunday they’d be spot on, another an embarrassment. I’m not saying Dad asked her to leave because of this. She was a relentless chatterbox and always got hiccoughs at the breakfast table.
“I like my yolk spoonable,” he said to Girlfriend Two, “my white firm.” But her eggs were always hard-boiled. Her and Dad used to make pig noises when they laughed, then she went abroad to find herself.
Girlfriend Three said she didn’t trust boiled eggs. “Too bloody mysterious for me,” she said, and Dad said nothing. She cooked us fried eggs “because I can see what’s what” and the three of us ate them in silence.
Then Girlfriend Four came along and used a timer, and the result was a perfectly boiled egg, but I knew Dad thought “cheat”. Last time we saw her she said “Jesus, you two.”
Dad’s the one who boils the eggs now because Girlfriend Five is vegan, and yesterday he spoke about Mum’s eggs.
How the shell would never be hot but warm. How the buttered soldiers would wait in line to be dipped into the yellow squelch. How when I was little, I’d dunk the soldiers and turn them up the other way, watch the yolk trickle down their bodies as far as my fingers.
Girlfriend Five is dressing the soldiers this morning — not with real butter but with apple cider vinegar and almond milk — and I tell her it’s different but it’s really very good, because I mean it.
Published Ellipsis Zine 9, Life Safari, 2021.
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