100TWC - Day 55: Separation

The almost-matt brown surface gleamed under the bright halogen lights. Nestling in its carton, the gravid oval roundness suggested fertility even if it gave no clue as to what lay inside. Plump. Ripe. Heavy in the hand once it was plucked from its sanctuary. It was the colour of ripeness too. Of a nut newly fallen from its tree. Not yet ready to sprout and good for the eating.

Eating would be on the agenda here too, soon. But not yet. That silk-sheen surface, still refrigerator cold to the touch, appeared at first glance to be perfect. Unblemished and uniform. Created with almost factory precision, with almost a factory's efficiency and delivery rate too. A closer look revealed the uniformity to be only a trick of the eye. The surface was flecked. Almost pixellated. In places a few hard blebs commingled with the smoothness, wrecking its satisfying curvature on colliding with the eye.

The surface gave a comforting crack as it struck the rim of the polished pyrex dish. Small brown flakes, released by the destructive contact, flew to the floor avoiding the interior of the dish. A lucky escape. Fingernails sought an opportunity, urgently yet slowly pressing, demanding a parting of the carapace. Once begun, its integrity breached, the husk revealed its secret. Glistening and gelid, shining into the open air and the aching light, it lay quivering in half a moon, dripping small gobs of gelatinous content into the open waiting maw of the dish.

With infinite slowness and care, the moon was rotated and the sun rose into view. Appearing through the pale jelly as the heavenly sun might appear through the morning mist. It rose, turned restlessly and fell from the broken ragged lip of the rind like a castle defender tipped from the ramparts by an attacking arrow. But it was caught! Its fall broken by the twin rind held below as the gelid mass slipped between the two and splashed greasily into the bowl to join the vanguard already waiting there.

The fortunate sun rocked gently in its new cradle, bathing now in much reduced waters. Fully four-fifths of its cushion had fallen before the sun was forced to retrace its steps back to the original hemisphere, like an unnatural commuter who could not decide in which continent to settle. On the journey it lost all trace of bathwater, the more liquid remains of the once-resistant gel now warmed, fluid and dripping lusciously from the shell to join its translucent family sitting patiently in the dish.

Now alone and naked in its broken home, defenceless in the face of the chef's desire, the golden orb convulsed in his nervous hand as it was carried to an unknown fate.

Beyond the boundaries of the pyrex dish, hidden from the unwitting contents, a pair of beaters waited patiently, knowing their turn would soon come, eager to spin into action and bring their ebullient effervescence to the party.