Creative Short Story: In Search of the Lost Egg Shape

The cover image was generated by Gemini.
The prompt for the image was 'Draw a watercolor painting that fits this short story.'

This is a creative short story by Gemini.

In Search of the Lost Egg Shape

It began in the
all-too-perfect silence of a Sunday morning.

I stood frozen in the kitchen.

In my hands were the
high-end Echire butter and the finest flour I had splurged on yesterday.

And in the bowl before me lay the remains of 'it,' shattered miserably.

'Oh, not again....'
Once again, I have lost the 'perfect egg shape.'

That egg I saw at my grandmother's house when I was a child.

It was not just a chicken egg.
It was a smooth, flawless curve
that seemed to embody a mathematical golden ratio.

That indeterminate white that softly repelled the light.

That shape was the very order of the world itself.

In order to reclaim that perfect curve,
I have been buying up 'specialty eggs' at the supermarket
and repeating the ritual of cracking them one by one with care.

However, what appears the moment I crack the shell
is always a sloppy yolk that betrays my expectations
and nothing but loose, runny whites.

'I'll bake madeleines.'

I suddenly decided, and threw sugar into the cracked egg mixture.

Just as the man named Proust dipped a madeleine
into his tea to recall the past,
I, too, tried to find
fragments of lost memories within this viscous mixture.

The sweet aroma drifting from the oven tickles my nostrils.
It is the scent of that afternoon boredom mixed with happiness
that I once smelled on the way home from Sunday mass.
I picked up one of the baked madeleines and stared at it intently.

'...This is it.'

The underside of the madeleine.

That exquisitely plump, rounded swell.

Is that not, without a doubt, the profile of the egg shape I have been searching for?

I realized it.

What was lost was not within the egg itself.
The truth I sought was hidden within
'the premonition of the moment when the egg cracks, loses its form, and is reborn into something else.'

I brought the madeleine to my lips.

With a crisp texture,
the perfect curve passed down my throat
and vanished into my stomach.

By losing its form,
it became part of my flesh and blood forever.

Outside the window, the spring light illuminates the trees in the garden.

I will likely no longer stare at egg cartons in the supermarket like a suspicious person.

The end.

This was a prompt from Akira Yamane.

Thank you for reading the article to the end.🙇‍♂️