Once again I find myself returning to the modest egg for a meal.
Longing for simplicity, I remember my mother treating me to the fried egg sandwich. Cut in half with a pool of catsup between the halves as a dipping sauce, the fowl based version of a French dip, per say.
Feeling less fancy, I forgo the dipping and place the crimson sauce directly on the sandwich.
As odd as it may sound, I smell the lilac bushes that grew in my back yard faintly as if from a distance. Smell, taste and memory are deeply and indelibly entwined. That meal you had on a special date lurks in your memory awaiting a trigger you may not even be aware of. The smells and taste of the infancy of your life are the building blocks, the foundation, of your existence. For me, two of those blocks are lilacs and fried eggs, forever entwined as the aroma of a mother’s love.