Poached eggs are my favorite thing to have for breakfast. I haven’t had them since Joe died 2+ years ago, because when he made them, they were always perfect, every time. Not too runny, not over cooked, just right. I never knew how he did that, and he could never explain except to say, “it’s just the way they look.”
This morning, the 27,029th morning of my life, I really wanted poached eggs. So I got brave and pulled the egg poacher out from the back of the cabinet. Tried to remember what Joe used to do. Sauteed some spinach, got out the toaster, made a cup of tea. And to my enormous delight (I literally pumped a “yess!” out loud), my poached eggs were absolutely, totally, perfectly the way I like them.
It’s not even 8 am on my 74th birthday and I’ve already walked and fed the dogs, signed up for an online writing course, and made myself the perfect breakfast. I think this is going to be a good year.