Cracking the Egg

Rosie stood on her step stool in the kitchen.

She had a bowl. She had an egg. She had sticky fingers.

This was egg number four.

Egg number one had gone on the floor. Splat. Rosie's dog, Biscuit, had licked it up before anyone could stop him.

Egg number two had gone on Rosie's shoe. Splat. It was still there, actually. A little bit gloopy between her toes.

Egg number three had gone — well, nobody was quite sure where egg number three had gone. But something was dripping off the ceiling, and nobody was looking up.

"You don't have to do this, Rosie," said Dad. He was holding a towel. He had been holding that towel for a long time now.

"I want to," said Rosie.

She picked up egg number four. It was smooth. It was cool. It fit perfectly in her hand, like the world's tiniest football.

She held it over the bowl.

"Okay," she whispered. "Please be nice to me, egg."

She tapped it on the edge of the bowl.

Nothing happened.

She tapped it a little harder.

A tiny crack. A beautiful, perfect, tiny crack, right along the middle. Like a little road on a little map.

"Dad," she said. "Dad. DAD. I did a crack!"

"I see it," said Dad. "Now pull it apart. Gently. Like opening a present you really, really love."

Rosie held her breath.

She pressed her thumbs into the crack and pulled.

The egg broke open. But not into the bowl.

It broke open into her hands. The yolk sat there in her palms, golden and wobbly, like a tiny sun that didn't know where to go. The gooey white slipped through her fingers in long, drippy strings.

"Oh no," said Rosie.

The yolk jiggled.

"Oh NO," said Rosie.

It jiggled again. It was sliding. It was definitely sliding.

"The bowl, the bowl, the bowl!" said Dad.

Rosie tipped her hands. The yolk rolled once, twice — and plopped right into the bowl.

It sat there, round and golden and perfect. Not broken. Not even a little bit smushed.

The egg white was on Rosie's pajamas. And on her chin. And somehow on Biscuit, who had not been near the counter two seconds ago.

But the yolk was in the bowl.

"I did it," said Rosie.

She looked at her hands. They were covered in slime. She had egg in her hair. There were shells on the floor and something was still dripping off the ceiling.

But in that bowl, the golden yolk glowed like a tiny trophy.

Dad put down his towel. He looked at the ceiling. He looked at the floor. He looked at Biscuit, who was licking egg off his own ear.

Then he pulled another egg from the carton and held it out to Rosie.

"Want to try number five?" he said.

Rosie wiped her hands on her pajamas — they were already messy anyway. She took the egg. Cool and smooth. A brand-new tiny football.

She stood up tall on her step stool.

She tapped it on the edge of the bowl. One clean crack. She pressed her thumbs in. She pulled.

Two perfect halves opened up like a little book, and the egg slid out — yolk and white and all of it — right down into the bowl.

No splat. No drip. No Biscuit.

Just the soft, small sound of something landing exactly where it should.

Rosie didn't say anything. She just smiled so big her eyes went tiny, and she held up her two empty eggshell halves like she'd just caught a butterfly in each hand.