Easy, elegant baked eggs for brunch.
In a Kerouac novel she imagines herself liquid, a stream of golden beats syncopated in hot opposition to the heart's rhythm, strangely, vertigo defyingly more in tune with how the stars blink- on and off- cradling her humble, unassuming beginnings in feather injected hay, spinning cool and restless past the farmhouse windows lit yellow by a single lamp on the center of a wooden kitchen table strewn with cereal coupons and finger smudged newspaper and coffee cups stained not with lipstick but with infinite tiny cracks, scenting the air with morning that rushes into this author's highway memory like a distant train whistle crooning its tug toward reckless freedom, toward shed dreams and mockingbird awakenings that mimic the familiar just to confuse you, just to keep you anchored, just to clip you from flying in your own, crazy trajectory, your one chance at what might be possible.
Maybe she's just an egg recipe.
