One yolk, one ask
Egg. Yolk. Silence.
A Poetic Exploration of Loneliness, Warmth, and the Act of Eating.
Twelve egg whites. Tomato paste spread on top. Plenty of basil. Finally, grated aged parmesan cheese. A few fragrant sprigs of green tea. A slice of bread, 3 cm thick...
I placed the omelet on a plate adorned with gray floral patterns and went to serve it with tea.
"Where is the yolk?!?"
A heart that never longed for an egg yolk now says, *We want the yolk of an egg.*
"Alone, all by itself?"
"Yes!"
I take a small pan, add a little oil, and fry a tiny egg yolk. I flip it over, carefully cooking both sides while keeping the inside runny—silently. In the kitchen, only the faint crackling of a single yolk can be heard. It returns to the table, placed next to the omelet, and I introduce the yolk to the whites for a conversation.
A sharp look greets me at first. Then, understanding the situation, I say,
"Fluid..."
With a single cut of the knife, the yolk flows and smiles.
"Thank you."
Polite and gentle. The sunlight reflects on the face, and the yolk glows within the omelet.
Tired eyes continue to break apart the yolk. A small piece of bread is taken and crumbled. As the tray is lifted and carried away, no sound of a fork or knife is heard.
*"Today was a sad day,"* one thinks.
There could be no other explanation for suddenly wanting a single yolk in the midst of twelve whites. As if the flowing yolk were tears. As if the crumbling breadcrumbs were a broken heart. Or maybe it was just loneliness—lost among the whites.
The rising sun was not enough for a slice of hope, so they added an egg yolk to their colorless life.
Cooking in a home kitchen...
Plates changing with moods...
Sometimes, just a simple salad. An old soul searching for a mother's pickles inside it—and lighting up with excitement upon finding them.
Sometimes, just a piece of fish. Dreaming of possessing a fish’s memory—to forget.
Most of the time, oily dishes. Simply because spirits are high.
And plenty of spices. In honor of good news arriving with excitement.
Lighting the fire for a lonely family...
The sparks from the flames bear witness.
Every day, the chef’s soul reaches the table.
Warm, salty, bitter, or sweet...
And each day, the heart of the one who eats is opened with a knife stroke—offering a piece of the chef’s own self.
Picked apart, broken into tiny pieces, and forgotten mouthfuls...
Cut, crumbled, swallowed, pictures drawn with rice, distractedly played with on a plate.
It is hard to scrape clean the sad plates that return.
A person cannot digest the leftover bites.
If the cook has feelings, and the eater has feelings...
It is difficult to draw happy pictures on a plate in a home’s kitchen.
The people of the house, wrapped in sorrow...
And yet, how beautiful it is to place flowers on an eggplant...
When, for once, the faces at the table are happy.
In the middle of my kitchen memories, I hope now, your days filled with the quiet poetry of simple ingredients coming together. Like the yolk finding its place among the whites, may you find color in the ordinary and meaning in every bite. May the fire in your kitchen burn bright, not just to cook, but to gather, to share, to nourish. And as the last crumbs are swept away, may life continue to serve you flavors both familiar and new.
Sincerely
Nesrin Eren
