The Egg Pizza

I looked at the clock and hurriedly made a bun of my hair as it was already late for me to prepare dinner. I almost ran to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Half-a-dozen eggs smiled back at me from the nearly empty fridge. I slapped my forehead as I regretted forgetting to purchase vegetables and groceries. My eyes turned back to the six little 'Humpty-dumpty' sitting gracefully in their case and smiling contemptuously at my clumsiness. I flashed a sheepish look at them and took them out.

I thought of the various dishes that I can turn them into. Suddenly, my train of reverie slipped into the reverse gear and took me 20 years back. I thought of the day when I had stepped into our first home with my husband, shortly after our marriage. It was a sultry afternoon when my husband turned the key to his apartment and ushered me into a brand new world of my own.

"I have to go to the office, it's really urgent." He said as he went inside to change into a fresh set of clothes. "But I promise I'll back soon. Meanwhile, you freshen up and make some delicious dinner for us."

The word 'dinner' made my heart skip a beat and my face turned pale.

"Hey!" he said lovingly cupping my pale face, "what happened? Are you okay?"

"Hmm," I managed to nod and he walked away with a smile.

"I had asked Shambhu to purchase some vegetables." He said as he prepared to leave. "He must have kept them in the fridge."

I waved him goodbye with shivering hands. Then I sat down on the kitchen table posing as a perfect picture of dejection. The reason behind my misery was my poor culinary skills. I had no idea what to cook and how to cook? My mother's words rang in my ears that 'the way to a man's heart is through his stomach'. She used to threaten me with those 'words-of-wisdom' and compelled me to take lessons of cooking from her. But I rebelled and found salvation in bunking all her cooking classes. Now my limbs turned numb as I realized that my way to my husband's heart was on the verge of closure.

I mustered some courage and opened the fridge. From between the crowd of vegetables, a case of half-a-dozen eggs smiled reassuringly at me. Apart from being my favorite, eggs were the only thing that can rescue me from the predicament. I knew only to rustle up my beloved omelette. I heaved a sigh as a new ray of hope flooded my mind. I made an omlette and cut it into pieces. Then I took a plate and arranged a few slices of bread in a circle on it. I placed the pieces of omeltte over them and garnished with slices of tomatoes, rings of onions and chopped green chillies. I smiled satisfactorily and wiped the beads of perspiration that had appeared on my forehead.

I proudly laid out the spread when my husband came back from work.

"It looks tempting." He said as he analyzed the dish curiously, "and smells good too. What do you call it?"

"Err...it is...err," I knitted my brows as I frantically searched for a name. "Yes! It's the egg pizza."

"Wow!" He said munching the first bite, "it tastes good too."

It took him only a few minutes to gobble up my unique invention.

My lips curved into a smile as I remembered my first culinary expedition after 20 long years had passed by. I took the eggs out of the case as I decided to make the egg-pizza again for dinner tonight, as a memoir of our good old days.