"Scrambled or fried?" I asked.
It was a simple, benign question that I thought she'd answer by breaking the yoke with the spatula or flipping the sizzling egg over to brown it on the other side, but instead—fast as she could—she flipped the pan over, egg stuck so tight in the pan by centripetal force that it did not move but continued to cook and sizzle, unfazed. The pan arched toward an unknown destination, still locked in her steely hands. Before I knew it, the pan was right where it least needed to be and I had my answer.