Today is Sunday, yesterday was Sunday, tomorrow will be Sunday as well. We are living in an age of Sundays. On Sundays, we wait. Some people wait for God, some people wait for american football, I wait for my own destruction. My Sunday is not about the big “G” God, or even a bunch of little “g” gods. Sundays are a waiting period in between the ultimate bliss relaxation that is a Saturday and the re-realization of obligation which is a Monday. Normally, this is experienced once a week. Of course that is when a week consists of only one Sunday, Monday, and Saturday.
In these days of house arrest assigned by the plauge doctors, with their hooked bird masks smelling like a rotted herb garden, there is nothing left but Sundays. An inability to enjoy the day because of the possible obligation that tomorrow brings. Or the possible news of our ultimate demise that will come. Sundays filled with monotony, anxiety, sorrow. This is the eternal Seven Sunday Sorrow.
On any given Sunday, inspiration may fill my soul. An omelette is in order. Unlike most of the world, I have no personal chef to wait on me day in and day out. I must take the task upon myself to create this omelette and fulfill my daily duty. Throughout my life I have decided that the three egg omelette is the ultimate form of omelette. Two egg omelette and four egg omelette are both viable and in this age of the Seven Sunday Sorrow, who is really to say how many eggs make the perfect omelette. All I know for myself is that three egg omelette has never steered me wrong and that I am always left satisfied, looking forward to when the omelette inspiration may hit again.
The construction of an omelette is one of all encompassing. You take a small amount of good things and dice them as small as you can. Generally for me this is a brown, red, and green snow composed of half a mushroom, a chunk of red pepper, and a smattering of spinach. This snow is cooked in a bit of oil before being combined, fully integrated with one another into one meal, no longer coloured snow but part of an amalgam; Omelette. The Amalgam is cooked for a time, until Its underbelly is ready and It must be flipped.
Despite my experience, we come to a roadblock. We have reached the point of action. We cannot wait, for the Amalgam must be tended to. From this point onward the Sunday has two possible outcomes, the Amalgam will be pleased, or It will destroy us. Some Sundays It moves with ease, fluidity. It is composed and gracefully takes wing, soars through the air to find Its seat back down onto the pan, intact, purring. Other Sundays we are not so lucky. It moans, holding on to Its bed, unwilling to listen. Some days It simply cannot hold itself together, slopping off mid take off.
In these times it is hard to say if Amalgam is still truely an omelette or if It is simply large scrambled eggs. For my own peace of mind I have come to the decision that It is still an omelette and will always be an omelette. The day may have turned to destruction, but at the very least It is still Omelette, it is still Sunday. No matter the outcome, It is still topped with cheese, which soon becomes one as well, turning itself into another facet of Amalgam.
I know in my heart of hearts that I will be okay. I will make it through this tirade of Sundays and see the Monday to come. I know this because I have seen my future, I have seen my end. My end is Domino. But that will be a story for another time. This increase in Sundays has also increased my omelette consumption with it, but not linearly by any means. This has not become a seven day a week omelette household and I believe that will never be the case, so there is no need to worry for me.