I beat my two organic eggs, fresh from my chooks this morning. I’m grateful for the mundane as my brain runs in overdrive. Strategies to write on how to talk to communities across a 500 kilometre (310 mile) radius and budgets to assign, assignments to mark, getting boy three to karate after school, time to see Mum, when would I fit in a yoga class, washing to do, time to write my blog… and it’s only lunchtime.
All that high-speed flitting and I can feel my little brain vibrate in my skull. I can hear it buzz, feel it hovering beneath its casing, straining to be released.
The fork clinks the side of the bowl with each flick of my hand. The two varying shades of yolk, a sign of natural egg production, split and mesh with the well-formed whites and skim milk. I grind some mixed pepper into my eggs. Coarse shards fall into the pasty goo and their pungency spikes the rich, fullness of the eggs.
I pick at a piece of hay from the side of the bowl. It must’ve fallen from the eggshell when l cracked the egg in. I beat again, appreciating that homegrown eggs always smell better than store bought.
I’m aware suddenly, of eyes staring at me. It’s my pale blue-eyed dog, or rather my amphibious dog. She sits on her butt with her hind legs spread out like frog’s legs as her body is slightly long for her short legs, the result of a German Coolie and Cocker Spaniel cross.
It’s unusual for her to be sitting because if she’s not running around the yard barking gruffly with a ball in her mouth at dogs passing by, she’s foraging around my feet for dropped food. I don’t mind her doing that, unless I’m chopping onions and then l become anxious. Onions for dogs are as bad as lettuce for rabbits, maybe even worse.
I don’t know how long I’d been beating but my eggs are well and truly blended pale yellow. I rest my fork on the side of the bowl and notice black and grey specks floating to the top. Maybe it’s more hay. I look closer and pick out three spots.
More surface. I look closer. Where are they coming from? Maybe specks of chook poo fell from the shell. I look at the broken shells but they’re clean. I always wash any muck off the eggs before I shelve them.
Maybe something was inside the eggs. More flecks surface, some deep pink and beige. They must be diseased eggs! But how can they be?
I pour my mix down the sink. It’s such a waste. I start again – eggs, milk and pepper.
Again l beat and again, flecks of black and grey appear once I stop beating. What’s happening to my eggs? Maybe it’s some infection inside them!
And then l realise. It’s the ground pepper – mixed, coloured peppercorns of pinks, black, whites and greens. Talk about a scrambled brain!