I was just a month or two past my 12th birthday and my family was right in the middle of moving to a new home.
Dad was in the Navy, so we were used to uprooting every two years or so, though that didn't make it any easier. My mom did most of the packing and cleaning. My brother and I usually goofed off, and dad continued to work, until we all piled into the car for the road trip to the next place.
But this time I had the worst cold. I had huge, painful, puffy tonsils and one of those fevers that makes you dream incredibly weird, tortured stuff. I can still remember: I had to climb up the little whorls I'd created in the blanket from fitful tossing, as if I were the size of an ant and the wrinkles in the cloth were Alpine. Those kinds of pressured dreams stay with you.
This was my parents' bed, by the way. Mom knew how crappy I was feeling and let me sleep there. (Or maybe it was because the movers had already taken my bed away.)
Finally, mom had to rouse me from my sweaty nap, because the movers were ready to claim the big bed.
I lurched into the kitchen, where the Navy-supplied table and chairs were still in place, not going anywhere.
There were exactly three things of use left in the kitchen, other than those chairs and table: An egg. An aluminum pie pan. And a huge, obscene knob of butter.
Mom melted the butter in the pan on the stovetop, cracked in the egg, and cooked it to perfect tenderness, sunny-side up, with utter motherly love.
I can't remember if I used a plastic fork or what to eat it with, right out of that aluminum pan, but it was the best egg I've ever eaten.
My mom painted this picture of the egg, by the way.
Other Incredible, Edible Eggs:
Chopped warm hard-boiled eggs stirred into buttered English peas.
Eggs baked inside hollowed-out potatoes.
Sexy eggs on asparagus toast.
Super-eggy potato salad.
"Ooh-la-la, j'ai cassé un oeuf" omelette.