The Egg Sandwich

I blame Sara. She was the one who brought the provolone into the house. Into this home, where we have bagels and eggs and I’ve been waking up early in the morning (at least for me).

Provolone is round. When you slice it, the slices are round. So sliced provolone is a little floppy disc of delicious cheese, sized just right for a fried egg and a bagel. How am I supposed to resist that? I mean, the provolone is in the same refrigerator as the eggs, not two feet from the bagels and maybe three feet from the Mediterranean sea salt and herbs de provence. One of the herbs in herbs de provence is savory. Savory, people. For the love of God, savory is its name. What am I supposed to do?

And in the fridge with those eggs, on the same freaking shelf as the provolone? Goat cheese. That’s right. I’m only one man, dammit. I’m only human.

So two days in a row I’ve been slave to the fried-egg sandwich, cooked up in a skosh of butter with ground garlic and herbs de provence (with not just savory, but rosemary) and, this morning, sea salt. On a bagel. With goat cheese. And provolone, the round cheese that fits right over the goat shmear and melts into a smooth blanket, on which the egg rests, its broken yoke clinging to the dry craquelure of the bagel ceiling above. One perfect dot of yellow yoke escapes, making it to the plate, but that’s all. Just enough to dab with that last curl of bagel, the period at the end of the sentence.

Noise: Cat Power, “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”

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