Fragrant wisps of garlic escaped the confines of last night's leftovers, now a pungent reminder on my kitchen windowsill. The aroma wafted through every nook and cranny, mingling with yesterday's dampness, until I couldn't take it anymore. In a fit of whimsy, I decided to revive my aunt's ancient, hand-written recipe for garlic fried eggs – allegedly her life-saving breakfast of choice during a grueling art school phase. The eggs sputtered and spat their golden brown lives, accompanied by the sweet sizzle of butter, as my kitchen quickly transformed into a makeshift culinary shrine. Each bite was a transcendent fusion of textures: the silky yolk seeping warmth onto the crunchy edges of burnt toast. For a fleeting instant, my taste buds, senses, and soul were in perfect harmony. Then – the eggs ran out.
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