Omelet Half-Full: A Breakfast Adventure with Vinnie O'Daniel

It all came back to those eggs.

I sat up in bed the way a man who has been sleeping for days might wake up in the way that he is groggy at first but springs up because he realizes he has been asleep for days. Slowly, I peelt back the blankets to expose my legs which were partially covered by shorts the way the moon is partially covered by the earth's shadow during a lunar eclipse. I peert around the room using my peripheral vision and that is when it hit me; this hunger. Hunger like that of a rabid homeless man digging through the trash can hoping and longing and praying that he can find a half-eaten sandwich that he may put into his mouth and chew like a hungry mountain lion that has just tackled its prey and is now tearing the flesh from the animal using it's powerful graceful jaws. Slowly, I arose from the confines of my bed and stood straight. Towering. I began my trek toward the kitchen the way a muslim might begin his pilgrimage to Mecca. The hallway seemed to stretch for miles the way something that is miles and miles long might stretch and I continued to lumber forward in a sleepy stupor, my only concern being what I might be able to devour in order to tame this ravenous hunger. Slowly, I approached the entrance to the kitchen. That glorious cave of wonders (I had also considered buying breakfast but the cost of gas and $6 breakfast just did not appeal to me not to mention I can make healthier food at home) called to me, beckoning me. I stepped through.

I rummaged through the fridge and began to examine the contents. To my delight, 3 eggs, oval shaped, white, remained in their container, sitting there seeming to stare at me longingly, begging me to cook them in a hot skillet and devour their yellow and white remains once I have scrambled them into an omelet of glory. I would oblige, I thought. I continued my gelatinous quest throughst the refrigerator, this fridge, this cold box reminding me of my days on the alaskan tundra when I would compete in dogsled races that stretcht hundreds of miles, the way the hallway seemed to stretch hundreds of miles. Those were better times, happier times. I was free then. Much like the way the chickens were before the became ensnaret by the farmers, those darn farmers, couping up these chickens for their succulent meat and eggs. Out of the corner of my eye, summarily, I caught a bag, a small sack, filled with succulent ham, ham that looked so juicy and succulent, I knew that it must be mine, it must be combined with these eggs, oval, white, to create the perfect omelet, the perfect morning meal that which I would fill my stomach. I snatched this bag quickly into my mighty paw, and as I did so, I gasped. Agape with delight, I noticed that the night before (I made dinner the night before prior to this morning) I had not used the remainder of the container of mushrooms. These delicious small vegetables from which I purchased them at the grocery store just the night prior (the same night that i had made dinner. They were on sale for $1.79.) would make an excellent addition to this perfect omelet that I was building, perfect like the pyramids which had been built millions of years prior to my making of this omelet which would also be a golden color. As I cradled these ingredients in my arms much in the way one might cradle a new born babe they had just brought home from the hospital because it had been delivered by the mother since mothers typically deliver babies I spotted a bag of delicious white pale mozarella cheese which I decided would make the ultimate topping to what was shaping up to be the most delciousest of omelets I had ever thought about making or putting together and I had made many prior to this day but this would be truly a great treat. Everything was in place. I was ready for this breakfast adventure to unfold.

Swiftly and in a quick manner, I turned on the fire to the stove and marveled in its glory much in the way man must have done when they first discovered fire, the fury of the gods. I put a frying pan on top of this fire and added a small amount of oil to the pan to assist in cooking the food and to help it not stick to the bottom of the pan even though this is a non-stick pan because baby, in this world, you can never be too safe. As the oil heated in preparation, I placed the ham on a cutting board which one would typically use to cut meat as to avoid scratching up a plate or pan so I used the cutting board. I selected a knife. A sharp knife. A pointy knife. A knife with a handle. A brown handle. A wooden handle. I began to chop the ham into small chunks. Chop. Chop. Chop. The knife sliced through the ham like hot ham. Once I had completed chopping up this ham and felt these chunks were of a small and sufficient size, I threw them into the oil, the sizzling hot oil, much in the way one might throw a hotdog down a hallway or a kitten into a wood chipper, with vigor and no remorse. I watched as the oil had its way with the ham, burning this dead pig's flesh into a dark golden color making it look so delicious that I could not wait to devour it but I did because to not wait would be foolish as the hot ham and hot oil would clearly burn my mouth and I am not a stupid person so I would never do that. Next, I began to add the mushrooms. Quickly slowly pouring them into the frying pan to join their ham brethren. They began to sizzle and cook. The smell was so pungent and wonderful, it filled my nostrils much like the way one might fill their gas tank to their car or to their propane barbecue. Next, it was time to add what would make this omelet and omelet. The delicious eggs, oval, white. I began to crack them one by one by one, three in all, directly into the pan, ensuring no shells would fall into the pile thus turning my omelet into a crunchy mess. They did not. They began to cook instantly. I stirred. Using the a spatula. A flat spatula. I stirred and whirred the eggs into the ham and mushroom with which they would meet their final destination together. I cooked them with the fury of 1200 suns, making sure they were fully cooked so I could avoid salmonella or diarrhea that the races of old had taught us to avoid millions of years later after their discovered of diarrhea from undercooked eggs. Quickly they cooked and it seemed like no time had past but it had past and so quickly because they were done. My eggs, my ham, my mushroom omelet was completet in front of me and it looked beautiful. Quickly, I flung the concoction to a plate, blue, round, on the adjacent counter next to me across from the stove and quickly topped the concoction with a mound of mozarella, cheese, white, melty. I stepped back. I took it in. It was time. Time to enjoy the veritable fruits of my labor even though clearly there were no fruits in this omelet as I did not mention any in this description of my breakfast. Slowly and in a hurry, I reached inthe drawer to find my breakfast omelet killing weapon. I spotted the pile of forks. I chose the manliest fork that I could. It was metal, silver, shining so bright. I clutched it in my fist and knew that with this I would satiate my hungry beast within. I sat down at the table with plate in front of me. The table is large and flat and black, flanked by porcelain dolls. I could control the beast within no longer. It was time. Time to free myself from the constraints of this world and become in touch with my primal animal. It was time.

I began to eat.