Mother taught me to fry an egg when I was fifteen.
She was a terrible cook. She considered all forms
of housework domestic burdens cast upon her by
Society, whose rules and customs she did not respect.
A working mother of four, she bore the brunt of the rise
of our war-honed agri-business, its flatulent hype,
standardization, shrink-wrap packaging, early stages
of the nefarious fast-food industry whose calculated
super-sizing perpetrates on humans what some
object to on ducks and geese for the sake of foie gras.
She was right about eggs and her egg lesson was
the first of three ordained once she saw the incipient effects
of pubescence on me. The second, to sew a button.
The third carries me to this moment: ten-finger typing.
“This way,” she opined, “when you end up with a woman, won’t
be because you need her for anything other than herself”.
The worldly reader will have noticed: Mother omitted
another want which enslaves many men to women.
Nothing, she knew, she could teach me to help that.