It’s the same as a hen’s egg, really—mineral shell, perhaps a bit stouter in the palm. Give it two, three knocks on the bowl; it’s just cracking an egg, nothing special, though novelty itself warms the skin. The yolk slips through, loses shape, then finds itself again at the bottom. It has turned in its sleep and resumes its dreams—dandelion, marigold, sopping honeycomb, pollen on honeybee thighs. Oh, soft! Do not disturb the yolk. Cook over any color heat.
A duck ate a snail for breakfast, two worms, seven beaks full of algae, and twelve red berries. This duck laid an egg, which was carried from farm to fork, where it meets your tongue. Swallow!—silken, buttery slug—richer than a hen’s egg, and what did you expect, with a yolk as fat and golden as that? A duck’s egg is not a hen’s egg, after all.
Don’t wolf it down! Savor each mouthful. Notice the earthy notes. Lick the plate, if you must; you paid extra for this. Tomorrow it’s hen’s eggs again. For god’s sake, wipe your mouth.
