A SOFT SCRAMBLED EGG

If you walk into your house at 7PM and no one has remembered to plan for dinner there’s only one solution: soft scrambled eggs on hard toast with butter, salt, and two twists of course ground black pepper. You will not be sad and there will be minimal clean up.

Don’t ruin it by adding cheese. Let the stark nakedness of eggs and toast nourish your overstimulated gut.

There is something nice about sitting in the kitchen while the rest of the family showers and takes their dirty laundry to the washer. The hum of daily duties and a moment to observe it.

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday - “remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return” - a holy fast before the holy feast. I felt mostly crummy with some kind of head cold. My nose was running and I couldn’t stop sneezing. “Is this covid?” - I asked my wife at least three times - “I don’t know, maybe, or maybe you’re having an allergy attack.” I took a Zyrtec and my symptoms cleared up.

This year I’m letting go of a couple things. I want to edge tenderly towards my own frailty. Inside, I can hear the Spirit say, come into the wilderness. But I’m resisting it. Just like last year and the year before. I’ve sorta been on a heater lately and I want to keep it going. But you can only live like that for so long. Eventually we all take a lap or two in the desert.

I was reading some poetry this morning. It was the opposite of sackcloth and ashes.

“THE SATISFACTIONS OF THE MAD FARMER”

the pastures deep in clover and grass

enough, and more than enough;

the bodies of women in loose cotton,

cool and closed in the evenings

of summer, like contented houses;

any man whose words

lead precisely to what exists,

who never stoops to persuasion;

Thanks Wendell. Appreciate it.

So I’m up this morning. More scrambled eggs and toast. I wish I had gotten one more hour of sleep. But that’s on me, I stayed up with the dog watching teams I don’t even care about.

I’m headed towards the wilderness as best I know how. Probably one foot in and one foot out. I already know I’ll break my fast multiple times. I’m greedy and Christ will have to forgive me.

This morning I stood at the stove slowly moving the rubber spatula through the runny mess, burner set on low. The trick is to remove them right before they are done. Too much heat and they seize up. Too much ambition turns perfection into calories without the grace.

It’s hard to be patient.

It’s hard to wait when you’re hungry.

It’s hard to leave simple alone.

Memento mori.