An exercise in presence

The meal I remember in most vivid detail is an early breakfast on the edge of the water near Ica, Peru. I was 2-3 months pregnant, always hungry, and constantly either depressed or frustrated or both. My job was terrible, my relationship wasn’t going so well, and I really disliked living in Lima, which had a lot to do with the first two things. 

So, one morning, to surprise me and get me out of Lima, my boyfriend had gotten us a penguin-watching trip, which departed several hours south of Lima at some insane morning hour. As a result, we had been driving since 4am when we arrived. I was very (very) hungry and not best pleased. The weather was grey, foggy, and moist, as was typical and a contributing factor to my depression. 

But at the edge of the road was this guy with a barrel filled with cooking oil, mounted over an open wood fire. He deep-fried eggs to order. He’d serve the piping hot egg on a crunchy roll, adding chili, mayonnaise, flaky salt, and, if you wanted, pickled onions.

I remember everything about this meal. I remember what I was wearing - sweatpants, boots, my boyfriend’s sweater, my brother’s big yellow raincoat, originally from the Danish mail service. I have a clear visual of the guy dumping eggs adeptly into the vat of oil, as if poaching them. The smell of the sea, the gasoline from the boat waiting to take us out, the slight mist in the air. And the sandwich. Dripping with egg yolk, spicy, salty, crunchy, and hot. It was deeply satisfying. 

We only saw two penguins. As it happens, penguins go south for the winter. The two we saw looked at each other in confusion: what are we even doing here? That was my most common thought for the two years I lived in Peru: what am I even doing there.

But at that moment, eating my egg sandwich at the edge of the sea, everything felt right and complete.