Nothing in the Universe is free.
That’s not pessimism. That’s not fatalism. It’s physics. Thermodynamics. Reality. Every choice you make exchanges one thing for another: time for pleasure, effort for reward, risk for experience. Even when something feels “free,” I promise it’s not. You just haven’t gotten the bill yet.
There’s no meal without cleanup. No sunrise without fatigue. No bite without the teeth of consequence somewhere in the shadows.
We like to pretend otherwise. We tell ourselves that if we do the math, plot the risks, and follow the rules, the Universe will behave. That’s the illusion of control, and it’s seductive. But the truth is simpler: you can minimize risk, but you can’t eliminate it. And sometimes, despite your best efforts and cleanest calculations, your number still comes up.
Which brings us, rather inelegantly, to Sal Monella, the official cleaner for the Poogatti crime syndicate.
I’ve cracked thousands of eggs in my life. Most of them clean, bright, free of anything but yolk and promise. The USDA says the odds of hitting a tainted one are about 1 in 20,000. I like those odds. I’ve rarely hit, but truthfully Sal and I have danced before, so it’s not like I’m unfamiliar with his work. But winning streaks are just that - streaks. Recognize luck for what it is, and don’t let it dress up like skill.
Let me back up.
I’ve been on a kick lately to burn through the small jar of Calabrian chili paste that’s been lurking in my fridge since Chicken Fornicata. It’s intense, oily, redder than sin, and ready to punch flavor into just about anything. I’d been folding it into my morning eggs; a little richness to cut the monotony of cayenne. And it was a delightful addition until it wasn’t. That acidic, oil-based paste conducts heat like a copper pan and suddenly your gentle, slow scramble turns into a runaway train.
That means you lower the heat. You compensate. You try to slow things down to preserve the texture; those soft, custardy curds you only get from babysitting the pan like it owes you money. The result is beautiful, but also dangerous. Now you’re cooking at a temperature where the eggs might not hit the bacterial kill zone.
You’ve done this before. The risks are rare, but real. You know the FDA recommends cooking eggs to 160°F, and you also know that if you hit the kill temp, your scramble will be overly eggy, rubbery curds, albeit bright orange.
So you make a choice.
You take the chance.
And then, sometimes, you lose.
It started about six hours later. A little cramp. A vague unease. The kind of signal your body sends when it’s not mad yet, just disappointed. After a rough night, it was full on GI mutiny. I won’t paint you a picture, you’ve got an imagination and probably your own regrets, but suffice it to say, I was reminded that because Nature cannot hold a grudge, it cannot forgive.
That’s the tradeoff. That’s the price. And I paid it willingly.
Calculated risks are still risks. We wrap them in odds and euphemisms, but we’re still pulling the lever on a machine we don’t fully control. We stack the odds, sure, but ultimately, they’re just odds and every now and then the house wins.
I don’t regret using the chilis. I don’t regret going low and slow. I regret that I lost, but I don’t regret playing. I knew the rules. I knew the consequences.
This is the part most people don’t want to hear: consent doesn’t protect you from consequences. It just means you agreed to them. Maybe not to the outcome, but to the possibility. That’s the difference between a victim and a volunteer. The egg didn’t betray me. I just took the bet.
And if that sounds a little grim, maybe it is. But it’s also freeing. There’s power in naming the deal. There’s clarity in seeing the costs up front and choosing to move forward anyway.
You want that particular texture? That exact balance of heat and silk? Then you accept the risk. You do what’s necessary to chase the sensation, knowing that sometimes that sensation chases you back. And it’s pissed.
Most of the time, it works. The risk pays off. You get the indulgence, the richness, the satisfaction of knowing you pulled the right levers to create something edible and good. Most of the time.
But not every time. Sometimes your number comes up.
That’s not failure. That’s not injustice. That’s life. It’s baked into the structure of reality. You play long enough, you’re going to lose a hand or two. “Shit happens” is an expression for a reason.
The key, if there is one, is to stop pretending you’re immune.
Calculated risks are respectable. They mean you’ve thought it through. They mean you understand the odds and accept the possibility of loss. But they don’t come with immunity. They come with terms and conditions. Just because you signed doesn’t mean you get to skip the consequences.
You get to choose the ride, sure. But you don’t get to steer the whole thing.
Which is why, after a rough 48 hours, I was right back at the stove. Different eggs, same chili, slightly adjusted burner. I’d made my peace with it. I wasn’t looking for guarantees - I was just chasing that perfect bite again. Because life’s not about safety. It’s about knowing what matters enough to risk.
And breakfast, apparently, matters.
Now go cook something.
