Needless to say that the consistency of cooking, the simplicity of an egg - well - I’m finding the utmost comfort in it at the moment. I’ve always found comfort in cooking. For as long as I can remember cooking has been a way to lose myself that’s never been about approval or validation, like when I’ve lost myself in dating, instead it’s always been about creating something new. Even if I’ve made the same dish 100 times, there has been something new to learn in every single repetition.

Often, the easiest way to walk back to myself, to walk back home, is through a market and into the kitchen. Sometimes, I don’t think there isn’t a single, solitary thing that a soft, runny egg, cannot cure.

It’s been quite a month of change, having given up my apartment in New York City. I’m one of those rotten Brooklynites who left Brooklyn, fell hard for Queens, and never looked back. Now I’m one of those rotten former Queens dwellers who woke up in Oaxaca Mexico, as planned, for a 3.5 month trip. But I had no idea, in January, when I booked the ticket to Oaxaca, that I’d no longer have a home in NYC as of today. That line about how everything can change in a NY minute, well, it’s true. I’m living proof as I write this from a tiny couch in Mexico, where the fan is currently blowing directly on my boobs because I cannot seem to stop them from sweating. You’re welcome.

Wait, eggs.

Needless to say that the consistency of cooking, the simplicity of an egg - well - I’m finding the utmost comfort in it at the moment. I’ve always found comfort in cooking. For as long as I can remember cooking has been a way to lose myself that’s never been about approval or validation, like when I’ve lost myself in dating, instead it’s always been about creating something new. Even if I’ve made the same dish 100 times, there has been something new to learn in every single repetition. Today I turned to eggs, my most familiar love. When I prepare eggs at home, I always know what I’m going to get and that security feels like the exact assurance I need right now. Whether I prepare the egg in Brooklyn, Queens or Oaxaca - I know what I’m getting. What awaits is almost always a brilliant golden yolk, soft, creamy and ever so slightly runny. That, for me, is home.

I woke up at 5:15am after 7.5 hours of sleep, the most I’ve slept in months. As usual, one boob went rogue and was hanging out of my nightgown. I scrambled to cover it even though no one was around. Our habits inform who we are, I suppose, and I have a habit of letting a boob hang out and fumbling to cover it. This happens in the presence of myself or of a man.

Wait, eggs.

I like walking to the Sanchez Pascuas Market, uphill, from the center of the city, straight up Cosijopii because 1) I get in a work out 2) I get to work on my tan 3) I love the colors and weathered buildings on the way up 4) bonus: there always seem to be a lot of old people walking up the hill which keeps me inspired and reminded that I need to not be so lazy for a 43 and 11 month year old woman - if they can do it, so can I.

After a good nights rest I had a quiet coffee on the couch, dressed and walked up to the Sanchez Pascuas Market. The sweltering, thigh chafing, boob sweat 95 degree weather could not keep me away from the market on a Saturday morning. I like walking to the Sanchez Pascuas Market, uphill, from the center of the city, straight up Cosijopii because 1) I get in a work out 2) I get to work on my tan 3) I love the colors and weathered buildings on the way up 4) bonus: there always seem to be a lot of old people walking up the hill which keeps me inspired and reminded that I need to not be so lazy for a 43 and 11 month year old woman - if they can do it, so can I.

I entered the market from Porfirio Diaz, where I was greeted by the couple with pan dulce, 4 flower vendors, the tlayuda lady and the plant people. Their faces, all familiar from past trips, I know who has overcharged me and who has been helpful - their smiles greeting me as familiarly as the sunny side up egg I would go home to prepare. My first stop was at Super Jugos Angelita where I ordered my jugo verde with extra jenigbre (that’s green juice with extra ginger, gringo) and as I waited, I turned to see Dona Cande, resolving that I would wait until tomorrow morning to secure my tamale with mole. Dona Cande’s tamales with mole are by far the best I’ve had, silky banana leaf wrapped masa, perfectly spiced mole with chicken, oil slicked, and slides down the gullet with no effort. I can taste it already. After green juice, I bought fresh quesillo (imagine mozzarella, but more stringy and slightly tangy/acidic with a similar melting profile) and panela con hierbas (imagine a cheesy threesome where cottage cheese slept with farmers cheese and then slept with ricotta salata - this would be their Mexican cheese baby). And, then, finally there was a whirlwind loop to grab flor de calabaza (the precious zucchini flower that can only be harvested before the zucchini actually grows), along with fresh tortillas and salsa from the old ladies stationed at the back of the market. They shout “TORTILLAS, SALSA - GUERA - QUIERES” (that’s tortiallas, salas - hey white woman - you want)

After feeling unlike myself, rash decisions, donating all of my belongings and leaving NYC in less than 6 days, this whole exercise grounded me. Going to market may as well have been the exact equivalent of going to church. Every stop at a vendor was an offering, a sign of peace, a symbol of loving and serving fellow humans and God.

I gathered everything in my grocery bag and walked down Cosijopii. The walk down was breezy, less thigh chafing, for sure, and I felt my smile stretch across my face again. As I glanced over my left shoulder I could see the mountains off in the distance, the same mountains I must pass at least 6 times a day, and they have never lost their beauty. I could hear the rustling of colorful paper streamers flying over my head. They awoke another smile. The city bathed me in its blessing just as it had two years ago when we first met.

The good news, despite all of the sudden changes that occurred in my life over the past few days I didn’t lose my smile - not for good, at least. I didn’t lose my hope. Tired, sweaty, hungry - but still full of life - I headed home. I walked through the center of the city, passing musicians, stepping over orange flowers on the cobble stone streets that had fallen from the jacaranda trees - I smiled again. “I’m free.”

But as I walked, I couldn’t help but recognize that this trip to the market felt different today I took in the smells, the smiles, the colors, the crowds - everything - differently. I always entered the market, weekly, knowing I’d be going back to NY in a few months and today I walked in knowing I’d be going home to my apartment here and now. After 3.5 months I don’t know where I’ll be for the next 3.5 months. I’m figuring it out as I go along, the recipe isn’t written. Honestly, I don’t know that I had the same lust in my eyes today. Maybe I met the market with a quiet contentment instead. And, maybe that’s a good thing? Lust fills a space with energy that can, at times, be toxic. But, well, contentment is honest, humble, soft spoken and calm.

I swiped my card to enter into the large wooden door that leads to the courtyard where my apartment sits in the back. I opened the door and unpacked my groceries, laying each item, one by one, on the kitchen table. First, the wam tortillas, followed by the salsa, cheese and squash flowers. I took two eggs from the refrigerator, walked into the kitchen, and placed a cutting board and pan on the counter. I paced back to the table, grabbing the spoils for their ceremonious preparation. I cut the cheese bags open, slicing the panela and sneaking a taste. Chewy, as I’d remembered, mildly salty and with a red pepper kick - I always preferred the herbed one. I heated the pan and cut a piece of quesillo, the salt made my lips purse - a kiss - I drifted to not having been kissed in a year.

I cracked two eggs in the pan and let them settle into themselves as I cut cubes of panela, preparing bite sized pieces to drop into the whites of the egg. The cubes would melt and become one with the whites, infusing them with their herby and salty charm. I plucked the flor de calabaza from their stem, grabbing another pan, tossing them in and placing a large tortilla on top. I let them settle into one another for 3 whole minutes, then I took a plate from the cabinet and laid it atop the pan. Moments later I gently flipped the pan and put the plate with the tortilla and flor de calabaza off to the side. With a spatula I lifted the eggs with panela from their pan, allowing them to slide off of the spatula and glide right on to their tortilla bed, speckled with green and yellow flowers. It was poetry. It was a romantic gesture to see those eggs lay bare. Within seconds, I spooned heaps of salsa on top of the eggs, sliced an avocado and mashed it into a corner. A sprinkle of salt and a squeeze of lime - the final kisses. I walked, with my plate, to the table. I bowed my head and said thank you. “Thank you for being able to cook, Tina Corrado.” Fuck, what’s up with people who do not cook? This process, one of devotion and respect for myself, has saved my life one too many times, and my mind, for that matter. Imagine how cooking can save a life?

I smelled the spice of the salsa, and took it in with the entirety of my being. I began to salivate. I longingly and lovingly looked at those eggs; their golden yolks smiling back at me - soft, creamy, runny and ready to cure me in that very moment.

The Egg: Soft, Creamy, Runny And Ready To Cure