As I stared into my morning omelet, I pondered. What comprises of an omelet?
A collection of diced ingredients that have their beginnings thousands of miles apart.
I thought of appreciation for the steaming yellow Ellis Island on my plate.
Rather than be transported to their origin, but rather my living room became filled with visitors
Tuffs of distant grasses uprooted my floor boards
Walls and corners flattened, rolled and morphed into a mirage like projection screen
They glowed and I felt the warm climate of my surroundings as they became vast fields and hills rolling into the horizon
Stretched and abundant were distinct vegetables that shot out from within the earth’s skin.
And I looked at the bouquet of life holding energy bound within my egg.
I then thought of all those who had a hand in what I was about to mindlessly eat.
My omelet erupted with visions of mushroom fields and Ecuadorian hills adorned in avocado tree delight.
And the green and yellow peppers that decorate my egg, from what Pennsylvanian field were they plucked?
And olives from Greece and eggs from a laying hen in a dark prison coup unknown.
I saw farmhands and some old sun stained skin of leather backs hunched,
bound cover to cover in generational poverty scorn.
I saw children and exotic women with basinets collecting the harvest that they prayed would be kind
And they made their way towards me, my attire pajamas and slippers in front of flat screen, coffee in hand
They placed their contribution and livelihood upon my plate into my morning omelet
Absorbing and finding places for them to very temporarily stay
When they were done they smiled with a face carved from wisdom’s tears
and they laughed and spoke in a beautiful native tongue that I could not understand.
In that moment looking down transfixed, I realized that we are worldlier than we care to think about.
No longer will I take for granted any morning egg.