First look at the egg. Run your fingers slowly over its smooth brown surface. Do not study it, or look for anything in particular, just take in the curve, the exquisite vulnerability. Press its cool surface to your lips. Hold the egg.
Keep the light on. You can neither cook nor eat an imaginary egg.
Tap the egg gently but firmly against the side of a bowl until the shell gives way. Slowly, very slowly, prise the shell apart, allowing the oyster-white liquid to slide into a cool porcelain bowl.
Sink your fingers in the mixture. There's no need to wait for the egg to be ready. Just rest your fingers in the liquid, unmoving, then ease yourself into the substance of it. Battering an egg is only for films; in real life the yolk and albumen are turned and blended with near agonising slowness.
Don't concentrate, relax, let your attention swim over the egg. Give yourself to the egg. The world has taught you that the egg is there for your pleasure, whereas in truth you are there for it. You are here to serve the egg.
Warm your pan and add your golden butter to the fire. When deliquesced and on the point of autumn, feed the egg to the oil. Tip the pan towards you and, with a spatula stroke the mixture from the far side, tipping the pan away from you so that the liquid egg spreads into space. Repeat until the omelette is a quiveringly cohering gold, poised upon the firm but gentle tip of readiness, but with a light film of nacreous liquor slicked over the surface. Fold and serve.
You will now be hungry. There is no need to get yourself in the mood to eat. You do not need to dress up for the occasion, or watch food being cooked, or imagine prior eggs. The egg, ready before you, is an irresistible living magnet. It will draw your passion towards it.
Take the omelette into your mouth and let it lie there as the feeling of it spreads throughout your body. Do not move your tongue, or your consciousness will leave your body into an exciting idea of what is happening. Bite into the egg with creamy languor, let yourself slip into the atmosphere of the egg. Eggs love to be eaten this way.
Let the subtle feeling of yourself spread into the egg. Become the egg. Let go.
Everyone yearns to let go, but few can. What’s more, many think they are letting go when they are only letting go of their thoughts.
Normally it is thought that hangs on when eating an omelette. The chattering mind, expanded by the sensitivity of egg-intimacy, goes egg-mental, and then tries to concentrate and control itself.
But letting go of thought alone is not enough. Letting go of thought allows emotions to take control; to seethe and devour and scream and tear away at the egg in the theatre of eating. Most people consider this, the release of emotion and its temporary relief from thinking, the acme of gastronomic pleasure and passionate abandon, but it is still just a partial release, and restless gluttonous hunger will soon return.
Letting go is letting go of the entire self, of thought and emotion; of everything you think and feel, giving it all up to pure physical sensation - in the emptiness of mind and emotion is the experience of the emptiness of the egg. In this there is no feeling of excitement or getting, not much happening in fact, and very little demonstrable ecstasy; and yet you and the egg are overwhelmed with inexpressible pleasure, together.
Make omelette every day.