I look down into my bowl and see the stringy orange tendrils of egg. Eggs in my soup. Reminds me of dim Chinese restaurants I would eat at with my family. I would go through the buffet line and see the large steel silvery vat full of soup. I’d reach my hand out and grasp the warm ladle, opening the lid with the black textured handle. I would pull my face back as steam rose up, and glance down to see a hot churning soup. Egg tendrils swimming through it. We would get crispy pieces of fried bread and pour the hot soup over it. Everyone loved it; but I would just sit and stare at my egg soup. The little lines swishing and swirling around in my bowl. I never liked it. It would mesmerize me. I would stare at it and fall into a space unknown. I was not eating egg soup, but an unknown broth. I had never seen eggs look like this before, could never imagine them this way. Stringy and beautiful. I did not want to touch the soup, did not want to taste it. I did not know of what was underneath, what could be laying underneath the surface to tempt my taste buds. What would come out on top.
Now as an adult trying to save, I make my ramen with eggs. It will fill me up more. I will feel less hungry. So I crack two eggs into my soup and as I empty the noodle-less broth, I again see the tendrils of my eggs swishing and swirling around, transporting me to dim Chinese restaurants with my family. I eat this soup. I eat this soup to stay warm and feel full. I eat this soup as an adult. I eat this soup to take care of myself, no one else is around to care for me. To make for me what I really want. I eat this egg soup to save money. Swishing and swirling. A new kind of fear grips me.