Early one morning, in my family's kitchen
I felt my stomach contort from hunger,
an accordian squeezing out a tune.
I was five, I sat at the table 
watching my dad fry sunnyside-up eggs in the cast iron skillet.
My tummy was a wrung out washrag inside my belly.

"Can I eat now?"
I asked my father.
He turned and slipped the perfectly prepared egg onto my plate.
With conviction he declared,
"Eat that right up. Nothing is worse than a cold egg."

Fast forward to when I had my own five-year-old,
She was not quite as compliant as I had been at her age, 
When I parroted my father's words
"Nothing is worse than a cold egg,"
She eyed me suspiciously, "Really?"
"Mommy, there are lots of things worse than a cold egg."

1952 –