Where Do Egg Yolks Go When an Egg White Omelet Is Made?

9:36 AM: Three egg yolks, including myself, forcefully clog the drain. A young human dumped us in her sink to make an egg white omelet with gruyere cheese and finely chopped herbs.

“My aunt used to order this very omelet every time we went out for breakfast together as a kid,” she had told her roommate. “I was always grossed out by the gruyere because the only cheese I was exposed to at home was orange Kraft singles. Now, my palate is refined and I will surely appreciate it, too.”

“Well, keep the yolks and we can make Caesar salad dressing,” her roommate suggested.

“Anchovies are disgusting,” the worldly chef replied as she played Russian Roulette with her apartment’s shitty plumbing. We decide we’re not in a downtown mood today, so her apartment’s plumbing gets off lucky.

9:48 AM: As soon as Princess Gruyere steps away to eat her masterpiece, we hoist ourselves up out into the sink and plod our way up the stack of dirty dishes. We roll ourselves onto the counter, scale the dish rack and plop out onto the window ledge. We find respite on the only remaining artifact of last year’s disastrous Thanksgiving dinner: a takeout menu from an Italian restaurant around the corner.

10:02 AM: During my time in the fridge, I vowed that if I ever had a chance to visit the great beyond, I would travel to a pasture to meet a real-life cow. I’ve stared at an illustration of one on the back of a milk carton my entire adult life. When the menu we’re sitting on catches a big gust of wind like a magic carpet and sends us soaring, I realize that today just might be the day that this dream comes to life.

10:19 AM: Our private jet takes us to a diner that doesn’t have cows but does have a pretty sweet bottomless coffee situation. While reading the menu, I notice there’s an upcharge for egg white omelets, which is absurd since cartons of prepared liquid egg whites clearly line the kitchen shelves. Yolks aren’t collecting unemployment here, folks!

10:20 AM: I take a deep breath and order a glass of water. I can’t eat solids and coffee gives me indigestion.

11:56 AM: After breakfast, we board our PJ and say a prayer that we don’t fry before the wind comes. It’s our lucky day; the wind picks up and off we fly to a water park. There’s a 50-minute line for a 20-second water ride, but we’re willing to wait it out. We want to show off how egg yolks can shoot down water slides really fast without the assistance of a raft.

3:51 PM: I don’t want to say anything, but one of my buddy’s Y.O. (yolk odor) is making it really hard to breathe. Fortunately, we fly over a taco truck after we leave the water park and the smell of carnitas overpowers his rancid Y.O.

4:21 PM: We ascend closer to the sun. The carnitas perfume fades away and is replaced with the smell of cooking eggs. When our edges begin to fry, we’re forced to make an emergency landing.

4:29 PM: We approach a large patch of green, a pasture, and even though I am dehydrated, my tiny yolk heart swells at the prospect of ending this strange and remarkable day among the cattle.

4:45 PM: I regain consciousness when I feel prickly grass all around me. Footsteps approach and I rally to sit up to meet the glorious steed that has been my daily shelf companion. A shadow blocks the sun overhead and when my vision comes into focus, disappointment dampens the anticipatory adrenaline.

“How did you get here?” asks a beady-eyed hen.

“Let’s not get into this,” I retort with a sigh. “Not on my day off.”

Photos by Louisiana Mei Gelpi.

Mia Lardiere

Mia Lardiere is a New York-based writer and multimedia content producer with a penchant for cooking. She hopes that Ina Garten will someday return her texts about Trader Joe’s truffle butter.

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