I crack eggs at work, over the grill, one by one.

I taught myself to crack them like I see on TV,

like I see chefs do, with one hand. Crack them

like you would an airpod case, Sandy told me

when I first started working there. I’ve never 

opened an airpod case. Android user.

He laughed, cracking a bunch of eggs in a row.

My fingers smell like grill grease and hashbrowns, 

my hairline itches with sweat. I asked Mel how she

poached her eggs one day when I saw her pulling 

them out of the water. They were perfect, little pouches,

round globes, so soft I could pick them up with my hands

if I did it delicately. Look at me, she said, do it quickly

before the water boils, you want your fingertips to brush 

the liquid. I crack my eggs with one hand when I poach them.

I kiss the water. You want to know how high end restaurants

get their eggs looking so clean? Sandy asked me. They

trim them. When I used to work in hotels sometimes 

all I did was trim eggs. At home I sit on the kitchen floor. 

I need to take care of myself more, I keep thinking.

I make myself a frittata. Crack six eggs into a jug, 

one at a time. Add some cream, some milk, some 

black pepper. Caramelize onions, cauliflower, leeks. 

Watch it bubble and rise in the oven, standing,

checking from the doorway in case it burns. 

*Courtney Barnett, Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit, 2015.