I didn’t actually do it, but I’ll bet I could have.
Yesterday in Los Angeles the temperature was a record-setting 113 degrees, and I was sorely tempted to break and fry an egg on the sidewalk out in front of the house. But I didn’t. The egg that was saved from indignity appears below.
With a couple of dozen eggs in the refrigerator, being less one probably would not have mattered. Then too, it was a rather slow day; on the news we were being advised to keep vigorous outdoor exercise to a minimum, so I readily complied. But more than that, I was a little confused as to how to actually do it . I seem to recall making an attempt any number of years ago with virtually no success, doubtless as a kid in the northeast where three-digit temperatures did not happen.
Yesterday it must have been hot enough, but a porous cement sidewalk didn’t seem like a viable cooking surface. I could just see the bottom portion of the egg seeping into a thousand nooks and crannies, and then defying my efforts to pry it out and onto a plate. Plus, there would have been the choices of sunnyside up, over easy or over well. But I suppose the main concern was what neighbors peering out their windows might have thought about the guy across the street with a spatula in one hand and a plate in the other dicking away at the sidewalk. A thin column of smoke would have been altogether too much, with phone calls to follow.
If, on the other hand, I had decided to go ahead with the nutso project, you can be sure I would not, under any circumstances, taken a bite of the results. Oh no. Add that to the vision that might have been unfolding to the neighborhood.
So I thought better of it all and saved one egg. Notwithstanding, it turns out that I may have inadvertently resolved one of life’s grand mysteries: The egg was there in the first place, definitely followed by me — the chicken — in declining to move to the sidewalk, let alone cross to the other side of the road.
Make that two issues resolved.