poached egg

The timer rang and quickly she shut it off. Gingerly she reached down and removed the pan lid and looked in. Clouds of steam greeted her, and she waved them away, coughing. She poked the egg with a fork. It wasn't done yet. She sighed and set the timer for five more minutes and sat down at the table to wait. She picked up a newspaper and tried to find an interesting article to read. Headlines about the terrible economy, the wars all over the world, and celebrity weddings clamored for her attention, but she couldn't concentrate on them. Finally she threw down the paper and went back to the stove. The sound of bubbling water pushing against the lid cheered her, and her mouth watered as she imagined the tartness of the hollandaise sauce coupled with the blandness of the egg. She glanced at the timer and saw it only had two minutes left. The English muffins were in the toaster, and she shoved the handle down. The timer rang just about the same moment that the muffins popped up. She flipped the stove off and grabbed the sauce out of the fridge. As she shoved the door shut with her foot, the phone rang. She hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. It was lunch time; she'd call back. She hummed to herself as she spread the sauce on the English muffins. It wasn't the correct way to eat eggs benedict, but it was simpler and quicker and had more taste to it. Carefully she laid the egg on the muffin and breathed in its warm scent. Squishing the other side of the English muffin on top, she took a big bite. The tastes surged through her mouth, awakening every taste bud. The hollandaise sauce made her tongue tingle, and the egg soothed the madness. The entire sandwich spoke of warmth and hominess. Sighing, she carried the plate to the overstuffed chair next to the window and plopped down. She leaned one elbow on the window sill, and stared out over the city as she kept eating. No matter what was going on around her, if she could find the time to make a poached egg sandwich, things always looked better.