2016-02-29 Desire, Destiny, Death and a Mushroom Omelette

by Matt Triewly

I walk into the kitchen. I am wearing my dressing gown. It is a blue flannel dressing gown. I pull the cord around it tight. I pull the cord around my dressing gown tight because the blinds are up. And if the cord becomes loose then it is possible that my genitals may become exposed accidentally and someone looking in through the window could see them. I don't want that. Yet I regularly expose myself on the internet. Life is strange. I am strange.

I decide that I will have a mushroom omelette for breakfast. There are some mushrooms left over from last night. We had a stir fry for dinner yesterday. Chicken, carrots, mushrooms, red pepper, fine rice noodles in oyster sauce. Sharwoods oyster sauce. I cooked it. It was nice.

I bend over and take two pans out of the cupboard. One for the omelette and one for frying the mushrooms in. I place them on the cooker. I then take out a bottle of vegetable oil from the cupboard above the work surface next to the cooker. I open it and pour a little oil into each pan. A little more in the one for the mushrooms. I put the hob fully on under the mushroom pan. The pan is shiny and made of steel I think. Not aluminium.

I then open the fridge and take out the egg carton. I know that there are only two eggs left. It's funny really that I almost always know how many eggs there are left. I don't remember much else useful in life. I take a mug from the drainer and put it on the work surface. I open the carton and take out the eggs. In turn I crack them open on the edge of the mug and drop the contents of the eggs into the mug. I toss the shells into the recycling bin. I then take a fork and whisk them for a few seconds.

I turn to the right and pick up the open pack of mushrooms. White mushrooms brought from the Co-Op. They were only £1.00. There are seven mushrooms left. Enough for my purposes. I pick them up in my hand and go to the sink. I turn the tap on and rinse them. I then pull off a sheet of kitchen roll and dry them off as best I can. I then place them all on the wooden chopping board. Next I find the knife from last night in the drainer. I take it out and slice each mushroom into about four thin slices. I want them to cook thoroughly. When I have done that I scoop them up in my hand and throw them into the pan. They sizzle and I grab a wooden spoon from a large grey pot I keep cooking utensils in. I give them a quick stir and also switch on the hob under the omelette pan.

I continue to stir the mushrooms and as I do they seem to 'scream'. I wonder whether they are in pain. I think of lobsters being boiled alive. I tell myself not to be ridiculous - mushrooms don't feel pain, they're not sentient.

I notice that there is a shimmer of heat above the omelette pan. I turn round and fetch the mug with the egg in and pour it into the pan. Immediately it starts to cook. Solidify. Yellow.

In less than a minute my meal will be prepared. My mouth waters. I desire the food...

Desire. Destiny. Death.

That's what it's all about.

I desire. Destiny delivers to a greater or lesser degree. Or sometimes not at all. Once I am gratified I desire something else. Sometimes the same thing again. And the cycle pretty much repeats itself else over and over again till I die. Destiny. Awareness of destiny...

The omelette is cooked now. I pick up the pan and carry it over to the work surface. I slide the omelette out of the pan and onto the plate, the plate with a green leaf pattern. I drop the pan into the washing up bowl. It sizzles as the hot metal touches the water. I then pick up the saucepan with mushrooms in. They have darkened, softened and shrunk a little with frying - just about right. I scoop them out with the wooden spoon and place them on the omelette. I then fold the omelette over them, kind of like a sandwich. I pull the drawer open with the cutlery in and take out a knife and a fork. The knife and fork are both quite shiny but I can see by the little indentations and scratches upon the metal (stainless steel) that they have had more than their fair share of use over the years. With the knife and fork clutched in my right hand I pick up the plate in my left and push open the frosted glass panelled swing door with my right foot and enter the hallway...

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