Every Day Something New

Eggs are runny again.

Damn it.

I did exactly as I remember her doing it— cracking them one at a time into a bowl; only she never needed to fish out any broken bits or worry someone was going to eat it and rage because they scratched, dented, or otherwise broke themself on an eggshell.

No.

She was the Mary Poppins of cooking.

Impeccable.

I dump the ruins into Mr. Mufferton’s doggy dish and try again.

Tap and crack against the rim of the bowl, gently separate the shell, release the egg. That’s one. Hey!

Do it again. Two. Well now!

Repeat the process and… drop yet another piece of shell into the yolk bowl.

That’s what I get for being cocky.

Grope it out with my fingertips (did I wash my hands? Too late now.) Use the whisk and mix until it’s solid yellow, because that’s how she did it. Add butter to the pan— pan’s too hot, butter’s almost black but I need to finish breakfast or else, so I let it dance across the flat surface like an Olympic ice skater. Watch it bubble, pop, spin.

Pour the eggs in, crack some pepper on top because she did that. Lower the flame to add half a handful of cheese like she used to.

Fumble through the drawer and— aha! Twirl the spatula between my fingers. Of course it falls but the floor is clean— for the most part— and even if it wasn’t the six second rule applies so I’m safe.

I peel the edges off the pan, and inspect. Not bad. Poke the middle. It’s firm. I note the temperature of the stove. Medium-low.

There’s a shuffling behind me, and then, “what’s that there?” Follows.

I feel myself stiffen.

I never know who I’m going to be when she’s awake.

“Cheese omelette. Your favorite.” I whisper as if Gordon Ramsay is asking.

“That’s nice. Thank you, sweetheart.” She sighs and I sigh and the omelette sighs.

It’s not runny.

She seems to remember that I’m her husband.

It’s a good day.

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© M. Lee / All Rights Reserved.