The first time I was faced with a raw egg, I was eleven or twelve, on some godforsaken wilderness survival weekend. It was breakfast, and I was mortified. We were given some very bare provisions, the full contents of which I cannot recall. Was there white bread? Who can say? What about a pat of butter? That doesn’t seem likely. What I do remember is this: an egg, a carton of milk, matches, and my abject horror. You had two matches, and if you could not start a fire after two tries, you could not cook your eggs. And you had to eat something.
This was The Nature, after all, and you were expected to do activities while in The Nature. Calories were going to be essential in your survival of this weekend in hell. If your fire did not start, your best option, other than faking a stomach ache and getting sent to the medic for real nutrition like concentrated runner’s gel, was to open your milk and crack your egg into it, shake vigorously (!), and drink. To my tender sensibilities— weaned on spaghetti with tomato sauce and chicken nuggets—this was an insult to everything good and decent in the world. Civilization had reached its nadir; we were truly but beasts in the wild! I badly, badly wanted to go home and play video games. Thankfully, I was able to start my fire with the second match. Triumphant, I cracked the eggs into my tiny frying pan. There would be no raw eggs this day.
Times change. People change. I still think of being outside in the wilderness with about as much excitement as one thinks of being thrown out of an airplane, but I’ve come full circle on eggs. On my first trip back to Korea since being sent away as a baby, I was eating at the superior curry chain Abiko Curry. I looked across the room at other diners to discover that you could order toppings! And isn’t that what this plate of intensely spicy and aromatic curry needed—more flavor? Among the options was a raw egg. It made complete sense that this pool of molten curry would be infinitely enhanced by the addition of a creamy egg swirled into it. Like making a sacrifice to the gods, I would cast my unborn chicken into this pit of liquid embers and be justly rewarded for my reverence.
At the moment though, my ability to express a complex thought in Korean was nonexistent. Ordering the curry in the first place was a near Herculean struggle. To suddenly ask for something extra was unthinkable. I would have to bide my time. I ate my curry unadorned, drenched in both sweat and shame, embarrassed as I was at being unable to speak my language in my own country.
Over the course of the next week, I poured through my phrasebook. Nothing was sticking, but I was determined. I would have that damn egg! Upon my next visit to Abiko, I sputtered out that I wanted an egg with my curry. My pronunciation was atrocious. My words were covered in a thick glop of insecurity, the sentence held together less with grammar and more with hope and baling wire. And even after the affirmative from the waiter, the uncertainty of what I had done was heavy. What if I said something entirely different from what I had intended? What if there would be no egg? Or worse: What if my dinner landed in front of me, and instead of a shiny yolk, I was confronted with a seething pile of natto. I knew that was a thing, and I was not emotionally prepared to confront such a visceral dining experience. My stomach lurched.
It was a relief when my dinner arrived, and it was what I had wanted. There, riding shotgun in its own little cup, was an egg. Already denuded of its shell, it lay there plump and quivering. I slid my linguistic achievement out onto the hot curry. The albumen instantly giving its translucence away to the barest white. I burst the yolk with the edge of my spoon, spilling its rich secrets over my hot desire. The world shifted around me. I stirred. I ate. I was victorious.
From that point hence, I have not eaten curry without a raw egg on top. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel complete. It is as if I am taking a step backwards. And having made the transition to my egg adulthood (and a subsequent move to egg-obsessed Japan), I constantly seek new manifestations of the humble ovum. Egg ice cream. Steamed egg buns. Eggs that have been batter dipped and deep-fried. If I see the word “egg” prominently displayed on a menu, I will reflexively order it. I crave mountains of raw tuna meat crowned with a single, bulbous yolk. Raw animals hedonistically bathed in the thick fluid of other raw animals. I have come a long way from the timidity of my youth. Nothing excites me more than pressing down on an Au Cheval-style burger to see the fried egg on top pop in a golden, dripping, explosion. I realize I really am a beast in the wild. I have become a full-fledged food pervert. And my kink is eggs.
