Nyai roro kidul and eggs

And there i saw her, Nyai Roro Kidul, the patron Goddess
of the Southern Javanese Sea. She appeared to me
the way she'd always appeared: standing in control of,
yet surrounded by violent waves. From her breasts and
all the way down to her ankle, she was draped with
flowing green silk fabric. Her hair looked as though it had
finally been freed from the prison of a bun, her lips neither
a smile nor an angry frown, and her eyes ready to punish.
She came to me as an arrested image, a frozen figure with
elements of heat and fire. And the tempest she was in was
just simply there. I never knew why she came or
what she was going to do. All i knew was that i,
who was right in front of her, disappeared completely.
At that moment i didn't know who i was or what i was going to be.

Making an omelet is almost like a sacred ritual for me. From the very act of breaking the eggs,
i look forward to dig both of my index fingers into the shell so i can feel a little bit of that cold
refrigerated slime of the egg whites. From there, a capful of milk for every two eggs.
A dash of bread crumbs, and a dash of seasoned (read: MSG) salt.
I pull the whisking fork towards my protruding tongue and taste that salty slime.
More or less it'd be perfect. On a lucky day, i have bacon fat to cook it with, if not,
butter would do. But never vegetable oil. When cooking an omelet with bacon fat,
i have the smell of sweet wood-smoked pig flesh being married with the slightly
sulfuric scent of the slippery ghost of a mother hen
(she'd most likely have been a caged up, debeaked one),
all achieved through a ceremony of heat and occasionally (when cooking with a gas stove), fire.
This union may seem an absurd proposal to nature or to god, but when bitten,
tasted and swallowed, it just feels so right.