scrambled egg

Little scrambled egg bits floated in what should have been a smooth, glossy sauce.

She showed her friends her childhood bedroom, the wood-burning stove where they’d make pancakes as a family, and described the scrambled egg sandwiches on white bread with mayonnaise that her dad would make.

They’re always good about making a scrambled egg for our baby that sometimes she’ll eat, which is a major win.

A small mound of scrambled egg.

She recently read a few out loud to me that sounded like a gloriously mundane piece of postmodern poetry: “lettuce wraps,” “scrambled egg,” “bloody Mary,” “puff pastry,” “hard candy,” “light beer.”