A frie-ed egg

We've started to collect pictures that somehow relate to our new play, now called "Our Daughter Wants to Marry a Robot" (in the tradition of 19th century plays à la Oscar Wilde, where they got their title from the last line).

And, as is common in Ampersant's literary output, we're always about everything, including fried eggs---although, in the play, they are burnt, the eggs, because Eliza can't cook.

Fragment, fragment...we're in Scene I of Act III. Eliza, the psycho...psycho-analyst, has tried to cook herself an egg, because Robert, her robot, was kept busy recharging his tired batteries:

ELIZA
(FROM THE KITCHEN)
Robert!
NO REACTION FROM ROBERT
Robert, you've recharged long enough.
NO REACTION FROM ROBERT
Robert!
ELIZA ENTERS FROM THE KITCHEN, HOLDING ON TO A SMOKING FRYING PAN, WALKS UP TO THE COUCH. ROBERT SHOWS SIGNS OF LIFE.
Robert, do something.
ELIZA HOLDS UP THE SMOKING PAN
Call the fire brigade, and insist on a significant improvement...
ROBERT
(HALF-RISING, NOT YET AWARE OF THE SMOKING PAN)
...What did you do?
ELIZA
I've never been in a kitchen before. Not since you came into my life.
ROBERT
(POINTING AT THE PAN NOW)
What is this?
ELIZA
Can you help me with my iPad?
ROBERT
(STILL POINTING)
This is not an iPad, this is a frying pan.
ROBERT RISES FULLY FROM THE COUCH. 
ELIZA HANDS THE FRYING PAN TO ROBERT, DISAPPEARS IN THE BED ROOM, AND RETURNS WITH AN IPAD.
ELIZA
(WAVES IPAD IN ROBERT'S FACE)
It doesn't work.
ROBERT
(HANDS THE PAN BACK TO ELIZA, GRIPS THE IPAD)
Let me see.
MANIPULATES THE IPAD. EVENTUALLY, SOUNDS EMANATE FROM THE DEVICE, ALONG THE LINES OF:
IPAD
Tada, Tada, Tada. Good evening, Eliza. I'm your personal iPad, and, as so often, I'm prepared to serve you conditionally, provided we keep a keen eye on our community standards. Tada.
ROBERT
(TO ELIZA)
It seems to work.
ELIZA
(HOLDING THE FRYING PAN UNDER ROBERT'S NOSE)
No, it doesn't. Look.
ROBERT
Maa-dam.
ELIZA
(EXPLAINING)
Overwhelmed by anniversarial [sic] appetites, and with my personal assistant bereft of amperes and lounging out of order on my couch, I decided to consult the internet, which advised to initiate my awesome, yet personalized cooking experience with an egg...a fried egg...which now looks like this...so... it doesn't work, your internet...We failed. 
ROBERT
Indeed.
ELIZA
'Indeed'?...I say 'we failed' and you say indeed? 
ROBERT
It's true though, isn't it? You failed. It's a fact.
ELIZA
True...'true'? What's truth to an egg...a frie-ed egg? What's truth to a soul...a frie-ed soul? My soul! You never did that before.
ROBERT
What?
ELIZA
Dipping my soul in...in...
ROBERT
...facts?
ELIZA

Egg yolk...Well, yes, facts...You always found a way to accommodate my flights of fancy, and call the weather service, and turn your phrases this way and that way until everything was all-right and we had snatched happiness from the jaws of reality...yet again...

In this spirit...