The skillet is hot--as hot as the bluegrass playing in the background, as hot as the coffee in your cup.  Today is a day for a bold breakfast.  You shake off your usual weekday oatmeal in favor of eggs over easy, chorizo, and toast, a perfect gourmet diner breakfast made all the better for coming from your kitchen.

You crack one egg and pour it into the pan, then another.  And there it is, in the second egg: a fat golden double yolk.  The orbs sit piled atop one another as if caught kissing before they could disentangle themselves.  You marvel at how so much yolk could fit into such a tiny little eggshell such as the empty one you now hold in your hand.

You watch your eggs cook, and a sly voice inside your head--the one who loves a good story, a good superstition--coyly whispers that double yolks are good luck, harbingers of double the grace, the plenty, the fortune.  These are the stories of old wives and crones and witches that you are half-tempted to believe if only because these fat yolks nestled together in front of you seem nothing short of magic themselves.

You flip your eggs and decide to let your fanciful imagination run away with you.  Double yolks are good luck.  Yes, you commit to the idea.  Already, as you plate your breakfast, your mind turns to the possible adventures these double yolks foretell.