The Next Great Discovery

Breaking up is hard to do. That's why this is one of the more difficult decisions I've made in my brief time as an upright, masticating lad. It's been great, even lovely at times. But as we've seen so recently in the political world, sometimes change is okay. Sometimes it's just what we need to shake ourselves out of that glossy-eyed, routine-induced languor we find ourselves after 1, 5, 10 years of the same thing, time and again, making the safe choice because we no longer wish to feel anything like uncertainty. Certainty feels good. Risk begets fear. Fear begets discomfort. Discomfort begets gurgling stomachs and dry throats. So, I implore you, take a sip of water and listen to what I have to say. It might sound scary at first. But so did space exploration. So did transcontinental railways. So did mixing mayonaise and dijon mustard. Do you want to live in a world void of Dijonaise--a world where future Dijonaise-like discoveries will never be uncovered, never brought into the warming light of a people's awareness, just so you can stay on that straight and narrow? Broaden your minds with me. Expand. Be the changing tastebuds you want to eat with in the world.

Put away the maple syrup. Next time you have a waffle, top it with a poached egg. Break into that yolk. And let the yellow nectar flow into each nook and cranny, every doughy well in which your syrup used to pool. Bye-bye, Aunt Jemima. Hello, Grade A Jumbo Brown.

To all sayers of nay, bear with me. Allow the thought to sink, much like the oozing yolk will run down into the waffle's core. Whether Belgian or Eggo, it will maintain its structural fortitude while gaining that barely detectable tang of unbirthed chick. In more adventurous circles than the standard Brunch circuit, delicacies are often those foods that are most like their natural state--the raw oyster, the fish eggs, the duck fat. In France, one such dish is the Ortolan. A small bird that migrates from Sweden to North Africa, they are caught in nets and forced into a dark box filled with seed. They eat until gorged. Then they are drowned in Armagnac, a type of brandy. (This act of cruelty is one reason why they are banned from being served in restaurants. They continue to be eaten in shadowy dining rooms across France. One practictioner submits that being suffocated in liquor is a better way to go than boiling alive in scalding water, a la Lobsters, which is a good point. If you eat meat, you've already signed off on condoning unseen cruelties, so let's not split hairs, hmm?) After being plucked, their overflowing bodies are spritzed with salt and pepper, cooked for eight minutes, and served immediately. You place the entire bird (about the size of a young girl's fist) in your mouth, all except the head and beak, which sticks out of your mouth like a boasting youth's tongue. But your tablemates don't see this; to eat the Ortolan, you first place a large napkin over your head, much like a veil, to capture the aroma and hide the mess. Purists are said to take 15 minutes to finish. And no wonder: Skin, breast, thigh, organs, bones.... that's a large swallow to bite.

I fear I've gone off track. My point: birds taste good. Why else would chicken be the most popular meat in hometown kitchens across the nation? Why else do we eat turkey to celebrate our annual remembrance of colonialism with a (geno)cide of cranberry sauce? Why else did TV-watchers of the 70s eat up The Partridge Family? I could go on.

Instead, I will say one last time: Add an egg to that waffle. If you need to lay some syrupy goodness down on those parts left un-yolked, okay. If you wish to soft-boil in lieu of poaching, hey, be my guest. But be bold. Veer off your one-lane highway of Log Cabin. And exit into the small-town of Hen Baby, pop. 1, welcoming you to a new and delicious future together.