Eggs

You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, Maman decreed.  But fastidious Marie couldn’t abide egg slime, egg goo.  She despaired of finding love in omelette-loving Saint-Yrieix-la-Perche. 

She moved to England; hard-boiled her eggs.

But it was cold there, unfriendly.  She pined; moved home again. 

Made pilgrimage to Lourdes. 

And met Benoit.

Another outcast.

Vegan.




—Christie