Mad Man in the Morning

Savagely beaten.  These words conjure gruesome images the moment they are spoken.  A victim of a horrendous crime barely recognizable as themselves afterwards.  Brad Pitt in Fight Club taking a beating from the owner of basement he had usurped. Deep dark beings come out to play when savagely doing anything.  Somehow, I am filled with those both deep and dark this morning.  I find a whisk to be excessive when making eggs in the morning, but my use of a fork for scrambling the yolks can be a bit savage.  Bits of egg are scattered over the counter as my arm motion whirls out of control for the bowl size I use.  I will brutally tear at the stain later with an antibacterial wipe.  It will suffer.

Starch is an enemy to speedy cooking in the morning and my patience is thin early.  I gash the skin of the potatoes and I slice through the flesh.  Slice.  Slice.  Slice.  No dice.  The torture is brief before reprieve.  Brief.  Reprieve. Held under the ice cold water ripping the essence of the potato from itself before mercifully tossing the slice onto a towel to dry.  A medieval scalding awaits them in boiling oil once all of the slices have been prepared.  They will at least suffer together.

Long strands of sinewy pink lay on the searing hot metal bubbling and popping the muscle and fat from a recently completed filleting.  Strips of meat ripped from the whole in thin layers only to be reunited in packing before being torn apart again and tossed into the fire.  Bubble, bubble, pop.  Bubble, bubble, pop.  Flip.

This sinister kitchen swells with the aromas of death and bacon as I dance in circles laughing maniacally at my creation.  A bit of egg up top.  A long dead slice of flesh here and here.  Sinewy strands now crinkles and twisted at the bottom and top.  My artistry of the damned lays in front of me for the taking.  My victorious cries break forth without warning, "Sweetheart!  Breakfast!"

My five year old bounds into the room like a wild animal ready to dismantle an unwitting gazelle.  She strides to her feeding site and mounts her chair.  I place the offering in front of her and she giggles.  Scrambled egg eyebrows, potato slice eyes, bacon mouth and a pointed bacon hat.  "I like the breakfast clown, daddy."

"I know you do, little love."  I kiss her head and return to my lair to cleanse the chamber of my crimes.  Tomorrow, the eggs will pay again and they will join the criminal flour in a hideous depiction of Disney vermin.  My darkness knows no end.