...for the soul of this morning.
We left the fridge open last night, and the milk for the cereal had spoiled. With insufficient sleep to my name and a petty fight with the boyfriend under my belt, I stumbled into one of the several Phillipino groceries that flank my apartment on 30th Avenue, Astoria. Wanted an egg, but the eggs were purple. The man at the counter explained to me that they were salted eggs and warned me away from them very solicitously. I told him it was all good and bought a couple. I've spent some time in China and was thinking greedily of the mild-mannered northern Chinese songhuadan, which was always so pleasant laid aside a fried doughstick on winter mornings.
The Phillipino salted egg is nothing of the sort. My fingers turned purple as I peeled it. I made it through the white part with only mild cringing. The yolk made my eyes water. Those things are fabulous. I imagine one is supposed to chop them into tiny pieces which will be mixed with plain rice, or the like. Alone, they are the perfect accompaniment to or purging avatar of a bitter mood. They taste like ass. They taste like pure evil, but an evil that knows what it's doing.