The Topic At Hand:

How Do You Like Your Eggs?

Marketers and mavens like to say that websites are living, breathing things, that they need to be fed and exercised, nurtured and loved, or they’ll die. And die they do.

But if a website ends as a living creature ends, does it begin the way a living creature begins? Can it be from its mother’s womb untimely ripped? Does it follow older, bigger websites around, hiding under their wings, suckling on their teats, emulating their movements? Is it cast out of the nest, alone, to fend for itself, vulnerable to jackals? Or does it incubate for a time, exposed to the world but still protean, its genetic plan wrapped in a fragile vault, seen alternately as food, as fuel, as life?

Revolving Floor is born.

How do you like your eggs?

Featured Contributors

   
meaghan.walsh
miette
miles.klee
rebecca.coffey
nporkov
rjurjevics
tara.bognar
julie.fotheringham
tracy.white
gmoskov
michael.maslin
evan.forsch
mick.stevens
susan.sfarra
todd.underwood
randall.cohn
feggo
josh.millard
amy.meckler
huili.raffo
zannah.marsh
miranda.nell
amanda.emerson
sara.nickerson
liza.donnelly
saul.epstein
rachel.hile
ted.graham
julie.dave
below.the.line
brian.beatty
chris.harcum
rachel.balik
eric.eicher
Tic-Tac-Toe-Playing Chicken, Retired
Eggs And Soldiers
crush, cracked
Object-based Storytelling
Eggsistential Anxt
Falling And Falling Apart
I Want Chickens
Coffee First
Cartoon

Before Nike proclaimed “Just do it” as a cocky exhortation to push past any obstacles and live out one’s inner greatness, it was a line my grandfather reserved for order takers, primarily at restaurants.

He enjoyed doing things carefully and well, but he was not a fussy man. Comfort and ease primarily informed his aesthetic. This was partly innate, no doubt, but partly a result of living most of his life in limited circumstances that required him to make do or do without.

I know I baffled him in many ways with my pickiness and perfectionism. He offered ice cream from his freezer to a crowd of grandchildren that included

How not to begin a story. Like this. Ab ovo—from the egg, from the beginning. In his Ars Poetica, the first-century BCE poet Horace emphasizes the importance of starting a story in medias res—in the middle of things—by giving the example of what not to do: don’t start the story of the Trojan War ab ovo, from the egg from which Helen hatched. No egg, no Helen; no Helen, no abduction by Paris; no abduction by Paris, no Trojan war. Horace seems not even to consider that someone inquisitive like me, someone more interested in excavating beginnings than weaving an action-packed plot, might even want to venture ante ovem, before the egg, to ask why Leda’s children were born out of eggs in the first place. Before the egg, Zeus seduced/raped Leda in the form of a swan, so, appropriately, her children were born from eggs.

When I asked my mother where the scrambled eggs I was eating came from, she told me that they were originally supposed to be baby chickens. I looked at the little yellow and white shapes, and thought I could make out the little creatures, each one an inch or so across. I pressed them between two pieces of toast, so I didn’t have to watch them protest while I ate. My mother served me eggy sandwiches for a long time.

My brothers and I had many toys, scattered over a large house. Who owned these toys, and where they were each meant to reside, was well-established among the three of us, but not to Martha, the cleaning woman who came twice per week. Within those rooms was an intricate network of extraterrestrial cities,

To my mind, the Kinder Surprise egg, that seamed chocolate ovoid in a shiny foil wrapper, is a perfect symbol for certain differences between the United States and Europe. I say this, perhaps, because I was in Europe when I first came across Kinder eggs—in Athens, taking a semester abroad. At a cluttered little kiosk, one of the type ubiquitous in the city, where I would grab a can of iced coffee before class, I noticed another student who often bought an egg-shaped something wrapped in orange and white foil. Eventually I asked her about it, and she replied with a knowing smile: “Kinder egg. My boyfriend collects the toys, and you can’t get them in the US.”

Later, in class, she showed me what she meant. She peeled back the wrapper

 Poseidon Makes Breakfast for Medusa
Poetry & Art

Have you ever been held captive, in some horribly dirty and cramped space not fit for human beings, where you were deprived of sleep, forced to stand and perhaps not allowed to go to the bathroom (if there even is a bathroom) for long periods of time, and forced to eat whatever somewhat food-related substance they put in front of you?

No, I’m not talking about Guantanamo. I’m talking about an average day in the world of film production.

I don’t follow astrology, but I had my chart done a long time ago, and the astrologer pointed out a conjunction of the moon and mercury, in Scorpio. My moon sign apparently rules my intimate relations. Mercury is all about my communications, especially my writing. My work, the astrologer said, not to mention my love life, would tend to be Scorpionic. Oh really? Me, secretive? Prone to power struggles? Preoccupied with sex?

Well, scorpions, like most of us, do enjoy sex. This is particularly risky when both sexes have a poisonous stinger. Said stinger (telson) is found in the last segment of the male and female metasoma, snug up next to a tight scorpion anus. The telson has a nasty pair of venom glands, and a hypodermic venom-

Jonathan and Patrick returned from Paris to this note:
We found your chicken one block over
and put her back in your yard.

And there she was brooding in the thick weeds
of their fenced-in yard, warming three eggs,
lonely, but somewhat at home.

The thing is, they didn’t own a chicken,
yet something about their country-style home
suggested to their neighbors a hen house in the garage.

Puppet: Yo, my judge be gettin’ mad kickbacks for sendin’ minors to jail.

Razor: Dat’s some messed-up shit.

Puppet: You know? I’m in ‘cuz I was makin’ fun of my principal. That fat ass. That’s all I did.

Razor: Wha?

Puppet: Yeah. If my moms was made of money, I wouldn’t be here.

All you have to do to get a free trip to Israel from the Birthright organization is be a Jew. The innocent claim of the organization is that all young Jews (18-26) who haven’t seen Israel should see Israel. You don’t have to be religious. You don’t even have to be practicing. They don’t care if you discovered philosophy as a junior in college, and soon after discovered that all the cute boys were atheists and became one yourself. They don’t care if you called your parents up one day to say, “I’m forsaking Judaism.” They just care if one of those parents is Jewish. Or so they say.

Both of my parents are Jewish. They were relatively unimpressed by my rejection of our faith; I remember my junior year when I received a voicemail

An egg—and by an egg, I just mean a hen’s egg, the only kind most people I know have ever seen—looks kind of magic just sitting there, a mysterious, lopsided moon of a beast.

Once snatched from its mother, if it somehow ducks being breakfast, it waits for its blankness to be painted, dyed, and/or graffitied, so that a Magic Rabbit can hide it for human kids to find and play with (could that story be weirder?). Both a popular folk rhyme^ and a Timeless Children’s Classic testify to the egg’s whimsical and wildly breakable nature. Like in the old riddle (which is really about a nut), the inside of each egg is a place that no human eye has ever seen before, so if some small, long-gone thing can reappear there,

If there was a bright side it was that he no longer worried about not getting any sleep. Not to say that peaceful slumber wasn’t needed. No, he had to be in the office in exactly 3 ½ hours to turn on the phones lest Bill Dwyer happen to call and get the automated ‘call us back during business hours’ recording. It’s just that once 5am rolls around the panic of facing the upcoming day in a zombie-like stupor subsides and in its place a calm wave of acceptance washes over. Of course whatever sliver of consciousness that had been fretting over the clock now congealed with the rest of his mind in firing off questions of the most crucial kind – the kind that needed to be addressed if he were to ever be the man he wanted – the kind that had kept him from sleeping in the first place.

Fiction

Spoiler alert : The action takes place in Paris. Not Paris Indiana, Virginia or Idaho but Paris, the city right next to Disneyland Paris.

The water is boiling and the bubbles are bubbling. I open the door of the fridge. I grab an egg. I enjoy the coolness of the shell. I close my fingers around it, and something tickles my palm.

Are eggs “dead”? Ghosts of chickens that will never be born? Could this one be an oracle, trying to read my future by touching my palm? Fortune or chaos?

Speculation

It all started with a fried egg. One egg, fried in bacon grease in a cast-iron skillet—bathed really—the yolk runny, the whites blistered and bubbled, the edges crispy. The best way to eat a bacon-fried egg was on white toast slathered with mayonnaise, piled with bacon, and doused in Worcestershire sauce. This is how my dad liked his eggs before he found out he had high cholesterol. The fried egg sandwich was cheap and filling and satisfying enough to be eaten for any meal. But it was also indulgent and dirty and served with the unspoken knowledge that despite being so undeniably good, it was a little bad—artery clogging bad—so there would be no seconds. This is the egg of my childhood, my primordial egg, my platonic form of egg, the egg that defines who I am. It’s also the egg that marks my dark years of

I look a little hippie-ish, so when I try to tell people about the egg thing, or when they’re trying to drag me to brunch at their favorite Omlette Hut, they assume I’m vegan. I’m not. I love meat. I love milk. I just don’t like eggs, at all. I’m one of those picky eaters. I got to eat what I wanted as a kid, so certain things just fell on to the Do Not Want list. I have a short list of food I don’t like, a list that is getting shorter every year even as I move solidly into middle age. Last year I started liking asparagus, who knows why? My list, one that I give to people who may be cooking dinner for me, is “I’m not crazy about eggs, seafood, olives, and mushrooms.” Until recently, that list included tomatoes. I’m still not sure about artichokes, but it doesn’t come up very often.