It began with a bite. A simple, unassuming bite. A deviled egg so divine, so unnaturally delicious, it could only have been laid by some celestial hen with a penchant for mischief. The yolk, whipped into a frenzy of mustardy delight, practically tap-danced on my tongue while the paprika winked at me like a sultry lounge singer in a smoky 1930s cabaret. Before I knew it, I was transformed. Not in the metaphorical, “Oh wow, this meal changed my life” way—but in the full-bodied, squawking, wing-flapping, primal-return-to-the-egg-itself kind of way.
One moment, I was savoring perfection. The next, I was out in the backyard, near the creek, possessed by some ancestral poultry spirit, clucking like a hen with something urgent to say about the state of the universe. My arms—no, my wings—flapped with a newfound purpose, and in a gust of sheer absurdity, I leapt, launching into the air with all the grace of a hot air balloon piloted by a drunkard.
The dogs, bless their confused little souls, gawked at me with the expression of creatures who had just witnessed their beloved human transcend into a species they were bred to herd. Meanwhile, a family of raccoons—who had previously considered themselves veterans of backyard chaos—looked on with an awe usually reserved for extraterrestrial landings. One even clutched its tiny, bandit-like paws to its chest, possibly rethinking its entire approach to reality.
Somewhere, deep in the cosmos, the great Cosmic Rooster crowed in approval. And I, still catching my breath, realized that no deviled egg would ever taste the same again.
-Bearz