Soft Scrambled Eggs

New year. Same couch. Same nausea. Same bald head under a beanie. Same view of the living room from a horizontal position, which is the position I occupy approximately eighteen hours a day during the bad weeks. The good weeks — the weeks between infusions — I'm up to maybe twelve hours horizontal. Progress.

Mason went back to school after winter break. He was excited — he missed Ethan, he missed Mrs. Liu, he missed the structure of it. I drove him on Monday, wearing my beanie and sunglasses (the winter sun hurts my eyes now, another gift from chemo), and walked him to his classroom, and Mrs. Liu hugged me at the door — she knows, I told the school — and said, "He's doing great, Heather. He's the strongest kid in this class." I thanked her and went back to the car and sat there for five minutes because I needed to cry and also because I was too tired to drive. Eventually I drove. Eventually, I always drive.

Scott went back to construction. Fire season is months away, but the construction crew has winter work — commercial projects, indoor stuff. He leaves at 7 and comes home at 5:30 and the house empties out during the day, and it's just me and Hank. Hank stays on the couch with me. He is old and three-legged and warm and he does not care that I am bald and sick and not the woman he met ten years ago in a shelter. He cares that I am here, on the couch, where he can put his head on my leg. That is enough for Hank. I wish it were enough for everyone.

I had bloodwork on Wednesday. My white blood cell count is low — expected, Dr. Reyes says, normal for this stage of treatment — but it means I'm immunocompromised, which means I have to be careful about germs. No crowds. No shared food. Hand sanitizer like a religion. The irony of avoiding germs while voluntarily pumping poison into my veins is not lost on me, but cancer treatment is a paradox: you destroy yourself to save yourself, and you're supposed to be grateful for the opportunity.

Brett came over for Brett Day on Wednesday. He brought Chinese takeout, which was ambitious because my stomach has been accepting food on a case-by-case basis, like a very selective nightclub. I ate half an egg roll and some rice. Brett ate everything else and told me about a project he's working on at his IT job — some server migration that he explained in detail and that I understood about 15% of, but the sound of his voice, talking about something normal, something that has nothing to do with cancer, was the best medicine I've had all week.

I managed to make scrambled eggs on Thursday. Two eggs, butter, salt, low heat, stirred slowly. They were soft and simple and I could taste them — actually taste them, the butter, the salt, the faint sulfur of the eggs — and I ate them standing at the counter with a fork and felt victorious. Scrambled eggs. The most basic food in the world. And I made them, and I ate them, and they tasted like something, and that is a victory. In the country of chemotherapy, scrambled eggs are a feast.

That Thursday morning at the counter felt like proof that I was still in there somewhere — still a person who could make a thing, taste a thing, and stand on her own two feet long enough to eat it. I’ve made these eggs maybe a thousand times in my life and never once thought about them. Now I think about them constantly. If you’re having a hard stretch and you need something your body might actually accept, this is the recipe: no drama, no strong smells, no complicated steps. Just low heat and patience, which, it turns out, is also the only way through chemotherapy.

Prep Time: 2 minutes | Cook Time: 5 minutes | Total Time: 7 minutes | Servings: 1

Ingredients

2 large eggs
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1/8 teaspoon fine sea salt, or to taste
1 tablespoon whole milk or cream (optional, for extra softness)
Fresh cracked black pepper, to taste (optional)

Instructions

Crack and whisk. Crack the eggs into a small bowl. Add salt and milk or cream if using. Whisk gently with a fork until the yolks and whites are just combined — don’t overwork them.
Low heat only. Set a small nonstick skillet over the lowest heat your stove allows. Add the butter and let it melt slowly. It should foam gently but not sizzle or brown. If it browns, your heat is too high.
Pour and wait. Pour the egg mixture into the pan. Let it sit undisturbed for about 30 seconds until you see the very edges just beginning to set.
Stir slowly. Using a silicone spatula, push the eggs gently from the edges toward the center in long, slow strokes. Pause between stirs. You are not scrambling so much as folding — coaxing the eggs into soft, loose curds.
Pull early. When the eggs look almost done but still slightly wet and glossy, pull the pan off the heat. Residual heat will finish them. Overcooked eggs are rubbery; undercooked-looking eggs right off the burner are usually perfect on the plate.
Eat standing up if you want. Season with a little more salt and pepper if your stomach allows. Eat straight from the pan or slide onto a warm plate. No garnish required. This is not that kind of day.

Nutrition (per serving)

Soft Scrambled Eggs — A Small Victory on a Hard Day