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Poached Eggs DAVE CLAPPER I poached an egg. The old way, mind you, before specially designed compartments. I dropped the egg in the boiling water. I watched it assume new forms, a butterfly. The cat watched, too, occasionally extending a paw, batting at the steam. He was hungry. I forgot to get Friskies at the store. "You've got to be more aware of my nutritional needs," he said, and I nodded. Lacking utensils, I scooped for the slithering yolk with a cupped hand. Pruned fingers rapidly turned to steamed meat. The cat licked his whiskers. I popped the egg in my mouth and broke off one of my freshly cooked digits for my pet. A special treat to apologize for my negligence. He ripped the flesh away greedily and then worried the bone for a while before secreting it under my pillow. |
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