Some mornings begin with noise. Others begin with a quiet ritual: two eggs, a handful of vegetables, a little butter, and a brooch. Not the kind you pin to your clothes, but the kind you wear in spirit—a symbol of intention, of showing up gently. This breakfast isn’t fancy. It’s grounding. It’s mine.
I start by chopping whatever vegetables feel right—bell peppers, spinach, maybe a little onion. I sauté them slowly in butter, letting the scent rise like a soft invitation. Then I crack two eggs into the pan, letting them settle into the warmth. The yolks stay whole, the edges crisp just slightly. It’s not rushed. It’s not perfect. It’s present.
The brooch is metaphorical, but it matters. It’s the quiet decision to treat this meal as more than fuel. To sit with it, to taste it, to let it mark the beginning of the day. Sometimes I eat in silence. Sometimes I write while I eat. Either way, the breakfast becomes a rhythm—a way to say “I’m here” before the world asks anything of me.
There’s comfort in repetition. In knowing that two eggs and vegetables can hold space for reflection. That butter can soften not just food, but mood. That the brooch—this small act of care—can anchor me. It’s not about productivity. It’s about presence. And that changes everything.
So this breakfast, simple as it is, becomes a ritual. A reminder that nourishment isn’t just physical. It’s emotional, creative, spiritual. Two eggs, vegetables, butter, and a brooch of stillness. That’s how I begin.
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