Eggs are magic.
They seem simple: shell, white, yolk. Cook them scrambled, fried, boiled.
But separate the parts and find complexity. Whites may be whipped into foam light as cloud and stable as glass. Yolks, yellow as sunshine, whipped with oil and lemon juice turn white, or whipped into a bechamel of butter, flour, milk,
Tag - Abigail Falanga
Eggs are magic.
Water laps under the pier. It’s a new moon, leaving the night dark. Ropes chafe my wrists—like guitar strings against my fingers, but harsh as the bad memory of yesterday, when this all began.
Busking on the corner near Brown’s Bar, I was getting good Saturday-afternoon tips from sailors off some freighters that’d just come in.
“This thing’s a museum piece.” Russ unlocked the door. “Literally. The only reason it’s not on display is that we don’t like to advertise.”
Will managed a half-smile as he entered the storage locker. Light flooded gray walls and concrete, making the object within incongruous: a domed cage of wrought copper and treated glass with exposed mechanical parts
Two multiple-homicides in a 3-block radius, and I got the one with no survivors.
Dark backroom. Dead bodies still seated around a game of poker.
Each man was a high-ranking member of the Martinez Gang. Even if I didn’t know them from run-ins or rap sheets, the distinctive neck tattoos advertised it.
“Judith Wong?” Burke slumped. “You think Judith Wong is a Hungarian spy?”
“It makes perfect sense. Think about it!”
“Ok.” Burke made a show of thinking, then went back to looking weary. “There. Thought about it. It’s still crazy. Judith Wong is the most popular actress in the country, everyone’s favorite starlet.