“That’s not how you fry an egg.”

“Excuse me? I’ve been frying eggs since before you knew what an egg was.”

“Oh, right, because you’re the Egg Whisperer now?”

“I’m just saying, if you want it fried, maybe try putting oil on the pan first?”

“Oil? Oil? Do you hear yourself right now? You don’t need oil to cook an egg, Greg.”

“Yes, Vanessa, that’s exactly what you need. Grab any cooking book and you’ll see.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You don’t cook with books, you cook with passion.”

Greg rubbed his rugged, brown brows in frustration.

Vanessa dramatically threw an egg into the dry pan. “Watch and learn, Greg. Watch and learn.”

The egg cracked on impact. A quiet hiss followed. Greg just stood there, blinking, while Vanessa glared at the stove, as if sheer force of will might magically conjure up a perfect fried egg. Unsurprisingly, the egg was burning.

“Impressive,” Greg said, grabbing his keys. “I’ll be in the car while you’re incinerating innocent eggs.”

Vanessa blankly stared at the broken egg in the pan.

“Okay,” she muttered, admitting defeat—at least for now. She snatched a towel and wiped up the egg.

Outside, Greg sat in the car, humming to himself. He wasn’t sure if Vanessa was still mad or if she was concocting some elaborate plan involving eggs and revenge, so he figured it was safer to sit in their car than to wait for her in the house. He adjusted the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of the grocery store in the distance. The one he knew they’d be visiting again soon.

The passenger door suddenly flew open, and Vanessa slid into the seat. “I wasn’t wrong, you know.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “About what? Spontaneously cracking eggs on hot metal like some sort of kitchen alchemist?”

She glared at him. “About the passion part. You’re just… too logical. Cooking is an art, Greg, not math!”

Greg stared out the window, considering this. “Sure. And maybe one day, when we’re starving because you’ve used up all the eggs, we can call it an artistic masterpiece.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “You fry the stupid eggs next time.”

Greg smirked. “Great. I’ll bring oil.”

Vanessa crossed her arms and glared at the road ahead, but a tiny, affectionate smile tugged at her lips.

Greg drove in silence for a few minutes, the quiet only broken by the rhythmic clicking of the turn signal as they pulled onto the main road. Vanessa sat with her arms folded, staring out the window, but the tension had softened. The egg fiasco seemed to be fading.

“So,” Greg said, breaking the silence, “what’s the plan now? Are we heading to the store to get more eggs, or should we give up breakfast entirely and become fruit smoothie people?”

Vanessa turned her head quickly, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, no. We are not switching to smoothies. I’m not done with eggs. They don’t win like this.”

Greg nodded, stifling a laugh. “Of course. We mustn’t let the eggs think they’ve won.”

“Exactly.”

They pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store, finding a spot near the entrance. Vanessa got out of the car with resolve, as if entering some sort of culinary battlefield. Greg sped up to Vanessa and walked alongside her, hands in his pockets. They entered the store and headed straight for the egg aisle. Vanessa and Greg each grabbed a carton of eggs.

“These,” she said, holding up the eggs, “are going to be perfect. You’ll see.”

“I have no doubt.”

Vanessa and Greg turned and marched toward the checkout line, lightheartedly teasing each other. They paid, got back in the car, and drove home, both singing along to Don’t Dream It’s Over.

Back in the kitchen, Vanessa lined up the eggs on the counter with a level of precision usually reserved for brain surgery. Greg watched, arms crossed, leaning against the doorway.

“Okay, Greg,” she said, turning to face him. “Since you’re such an expert, why don’t you show me how to make them?”

Greg blinked. “Wait, you want me to…?”

“Yes. You do it. Show me your perfect eggs.”

He, reluctantly walking over to the stove, resigned to the challenge. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

Greg drizzled oil onto a pan, setting it on the stove with deliberate care. He cracked the eggs one by one, letting the yolk and albumen pour down. Vanessa stood off to the side, arms folded, watching him like a hawk.

“Now,” Greg said, wiping his hands dramatically, “we wait.”

Some few minutes passed, which felt like an eternity to Vanessa. The kitchen was quiet except for the sound of oil popping and the egg sizzling. Vanessa kept tapping her foot.

Greg slid the spatula between his egg and the pan. For some reason, he felt friction. He also got a whiff of a smoky scent, but discarded it. He set the egg on a clean, white plate—one you would see in five-michelin star restaurants—and held it up, triumphant.

“There. A textbook fried egg.”

Vanessa smiled. “Flip it over.”

Greg blinked. “What?”

“Flip it over,” she said, stifling a giggle.

Greg stared at her, then down at the egg. “Alright.”

Greg grabbed the spatula and flipped it over.

Greg groaned.

“You just don’t get it. Books and cooking don’t belong together.”

Greg took a deep breath and set the plate down. “Maybe.”

TO BE CONTINUED ON NEXT PUBLICATION

*Featured image from The New York Times