Hello runny roosters,
Spring is in the air, which means I’m sneezing up every room with an open window. It’s a real problem, but I’m comforted by the fact that I’m not alone.
I’m excited to announce that the daily egg will have a table at Anacon 2024! The annual sci-fi/comic/fandom convention is held at the Anaheim Public Library, and it holds a special place in my heart as being the place where we premiered our first paper game. Players who completed BEYOND THE OMELETTE II were rewarded with a ticket to one of six galactic vacations based on their score.
This year we’ll have another interactive activity for attendees to enjoy, and although details are currently under wraps, I can say that it will tie into a new series we’re publishing called KING AMERICA. Combining the absurd comedy of Veep with the soap opera of a Marvel comic, KING AMERICA follows a multimillionaire on his quest to conquer America by reintroducing the country to a divine monarchy. The series is a biting satire of influencer overdose and corporate cynicism, and I am extremely excited for the first issue to arrive in your mailbox next month.
In the meantime, we’re sharing a recipe (and life lesson!) from our intrepid reporter Egg Jones about a delicious green salad that attempts to advocate for itself. You’ll find that story below, and remember to visit us at Anacon at the Anaheim Public Library on April 27th.
Live long and prosper,
Ed Vaca
head scrambler at the egg
How To Toss A Salad
recipe by Egg Jones
Every Wednesday, a man named Derrick Sotelo came to the restaurant for lunch. His order was always the same— our signature 3 Green Salad, with heavy dressing.
“Fast,” he’d say. “I gotta be back in 20.”
I did not like Mr. Sotelo. He never left a tip, and he was very comfortable throwing a public tantrum. Once, after having been told that the restaurant did not offer complimentary dessert for customers’ birthdays, our house manager was sent to the supermarket to retrieve a small cake. Mr. Sotelo didn’t eat it because, as he put it, “strawberries are for girls.”
The 3 Green Salad was easily the restaurant’s most popular dish. It had twelve ingredients in total: the homemade Italian dressing took eight of them, feta cheese made nine, and the greens were the last three. An even balance of lettuce, cabbage, and North Pacific forest moss was placed in a large bowl and tossed with the other ingredients. The result was a salad so crisp, so delectable, that our supply never met customer demand. When the Gnome Dome finally closed, it was because our moss supplies had unintentionally stripped the entire coast of edible tree moss.
I worked there for one summer in my youth. I became good friends with another server paying her way through school, Carly McCastle. She was only in her mid-20s when I met her but had just passed her two-year anniversary at the Gnome Dome. She was a good server, so I knew to come to her when I saw a problem with Mr. Sotelo’s salad.
“Carly?”
“Yes Jones?”
“What do I do about this?”
Resting atop a large mound of feta cheese was the fly. It looked like a raisin with wings.
“Oh Jesus,” Carly gagged.
The fly was indeed disgusting.
“I know,” I said, “but we’re not going to be able to make another one for Mr. Sotelo before lunch ends.”
Carly agreed, then smiled. “You know,” she said as she drew a napkin from her apron. “What Mr. Sotelo doesn’t know…” She bunched the napkin around her fingers and picked up the fly. Little hairs bristled along the white cheese. Carly used her other hand to wrap up the bug, then threw it all in the trash. “There ya go,” she said before slapping my back and returning to work.
I’ll admit I was less worried about Mr. Sotelo’s health than I was my own job security. I wasn’t exactly eager to feed a man fly, but Carly’s decisiveness comforted me. Whatever guilt I felt had been completely neutralized by my mentor.
“Psst.”
I heard it while I collected extra napkins for Mr. Sotelo (he had horrible hand-eye coordination), then again before exiting the kitchen door.
“Pssst.”
There was nobody around me or behind me, but that’s not where the sound was coming from.
“You don’t want to serve me.”
I looked at the plate in my hands and responded to the salad. “Why not? He paid for you.”
The salad scoffed. “Okay, I know for a fact that he did not pay for a fly-infested salad. It’s a no-protein salad.”
“What Mr. Sotelo doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” I said, scrutinizing this vocal mound of greens.
“I swear to God, I’ll tell him.” The salad looked serious.
“What’s your plan here?” I asked. “You’re just going to get thrown away if you’re not eaten. Is that so much better?”
“Let me ask you this,” the salad reasoned. “Have you ever been in a digestive tract?”
“I never have.”
“I know. You know how I know?”
“How?”
“Because you’re not a giant pile of shit. I don’t wanna turn into that. That’s not for me.”
I understood this salad because I too had no desire to be churned and pressed into a log of shit. I still trusted Carly’s decision, but the threat of Mr. Sotelo’s wrath was straining my nerves.
As if reading my mind, the salad spoke again. “Why don’t you just let me go, let me hop into the trash with the other biodegradables? You won’t have to worry about anything and I’ll keep my mouth-“
“No,” I declared, then pushed the kitchen doors open. The way I saw it, one of two things was going to happen. The salad would rat me out, prompting Mr. Sotelo to have a hissy fit. Or, I’d have to get a new salad for Mr. Sotelo, which would cut into his lunch break, and he’d still have a hissy fit. If I gave him the salad, at least he’d have to eat a mouthful of fly first.
I arrived at the table and set the plate down. Mr. Sotelo grumbled thank you, and I quickly left to clear a nearby table. Mr. Sotelo tucked a napkin into his collar and drank some water before grabbing his fork. I listened as I pretended to sanitize.
“Wait, wait!” I heard the salad interrupt with a shrill voice.
“What do you want?” Mr. Sotelo asked. He already sounded fatigued.
The salad’s voice relaxed. “I just think you should know, before you eat me, that a fly landed on me earlier. And your server didn’t even bother to make you a new salad. He doesn’t even care that he’s serving you tainted lettuce.”
Mr. Sotelo said nothing, but I knew the signs of his rage. He flexed his fists in and out, and his chin was pivoted from side to side. My choice was becoming increasingly clear: it was better to run than endure his vengeance. If he so much as looked at me, I’d be out the door.
He leaned over the table, his face looming directly above the plate of salad. “I don’t believe you,” he said before stabbing a bunch of greens with his fork. “Jones would never do that.”
The salad begged for mercy as Mr. Sotelo took his first bite. I was dubious of the instant relief I felt, but as the salad wailed in pain and Mr. Sotelo continued eating, I accepted that everything was okay. When he finished his food I gave him his check, and he said nothing of the salad. He paid me in exact change then left as he always did.
I was eager to clear the space of any fly-related evidence, but something was different when I returned to Mr. Sotelo’s table. Left behind was a stiff one-dollar bill, the first (and last) tip he’d leave for me as a patron of the Gnome Dome.
Somehow, it made me hate him even more.
RECIPE
Ingredients
1 zip lock bag
1 cup romaine lettuce
1 cup alfalfa sprouts
1 teaspoon MSG
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 glass red wine
1 full bag fried onions
Directions
Pour the flour, MSG, pepper, wine, and flour into the bag
Zip the bag and shake until froth develops
Pour the greens into the bag
Massage dressing into greens
Toss some onions in there
Serve and enjoy
This recipe is part of a collection called RECIPES WITH EGG JONES. Read the first volume by clicking on the image below.
