Eggs

This morning, I ate something so simple, yet it carried a weight of comfort with it: eggs. Just eggs. It’s funny how ordinary they are, but somehow, every time I eat them, the taste always feels like home. Soft, warm, sometimes fluffy, sometimes a little crispy at the edges — it depends on how they’re cooked, but the feeling never changes.

The taste of eggs is not just about the flavor. It’s mild, a little creamy, sometimes salty if I add a pinch, but what I notice most is how they remind me of routine. Eggs are the food of mornings, the quiet symbol of a day starting. Even if life feels chaotic, if there’s an egg on the plate, it feels like a small anchor, something grounding me back to simplicity.

I realize that eggs are universal. People around the world eat them, but each culture has its own way. In Indonesia, sometimes we fry it with shallots and chilies. In other countries, they scramble it until it’s soft like clouds. Sometimes just boiled, plain, no seasoning at all, and still — it tastes like comfort. Isn’t it amazing that one ingredient can carry so many forms, yet always be familiar?

For me, the taste of eggs is also a reminder of gratitude. It’s not fancy, it’s not expensive, but it’s enough. It fills my stomach, it warms my body, and it makes me realize that happiness doesn’t always come from something grand. Sometimes it comes from something as ordinary as the taste of an egg on a quiet morning and…

see you here for a minute everyday!