Deviled Eggs

There are duck eggs at the supermarket—

perfect to poach, to slice into the sumptuous yolk and

serve over paparadelle and pesto, a garnish of honeyed walnuts,

balsamic. You see the Gemini moon in the morning hours,

peeking over the bosc pear tree—the kind of fruit for hazelnut soup.

Blueberry tea, and pear blossoms pressed into a dusty bible.

White florals—the kind of perfume for summer solstice: 

the right amount of citrus, a juicy splash, and the right kind too, bergamot.

There are quail eggs at the farmers’ market—more eggs

than you’ve ever seen, miniature, all pale beige and dark brown speckled,

all stacked and tumbling in an industrial plastic bucket.

You name your number, and she packs them into a brown carton

like the one the cheesemonger uses for goat cheese brownies.

At home, you boil the eggs and bathe mason jars,

slice into the shells with brass egg scissors:

pickled quail eggs are just right on Cobb salad—

the recipe is a poem: chopped greens with maple roasted fennel;

the expensive olive oil with a spoonful of apple cider vinegar;

wild summer mushrooms curled in your palm; red onion;

cherry tomatoes from the vine; skin-on cucumber; Mennonite bacon 

(save the grease in an empty jam jar for frying string beans another day).

There are no measurements—it’s the kind of thing you taste, you feel,

it’s blue-veined Gorgonzola, a crumble in your mouth, to taste; of course,

pickled quail eggs from the root cellar.

There is a bolt of butter yellow gingham in the sewing closet—

the kind of fabric to inspire an apron, to crack chicken eggs

against your grandmother’s mixing bowl: Butterfly Gold.

Great-grandmother’s recipe for quiche:

Whipped eggs on butter crust, baked with smoked ham and brie, 

just right to pair with buttery Chardonnay. The little dog,

named Chardonnay, ironically, at first, yips

at your feet. Life is buttery . . .

and there is nothing to love better than deviled eggs,

a lavender margarita, jumbo shrimp on the barbecue.

There is a goose on the lake. These cottage days promise

avocado & egg salad sandwiches on the beach, grapefruit halves,

a slice of sourdough, lightly toasted, strawberry rhubarb jam, 

strong coffee in your favourite mug. 

There are fresh eggs in the chicken coop. It’s almost as if this life . . .

yes, this life.

Emily Bulicz-Arnelien