It’s a rainy Sunday, and Dad is out of town. I had a hankering to make us a warm breakfast. I looked in the cabinet for pancake mix, realized it was gone and then quickly wondered if I had the key ingredients on hand to make some of our own mix. Indeed we did, and the kiddos helped me measure, mix and make a mess.
Eggs sounded good too. I’m
not known for my fried eggs; Daddy is. I had just flipped around two dozen pancakes though, and I was feeling confident.
You were a bit skeptical, O: “Um… no, Mom. You better make scrambled eggs, because you’re better at those.”
I explained that it wasn’t that I couldn’t make them; it was that Daddy made them much better. I wanted to give it a try, and I received a ringing endorsement from you, buddy, that the fried eggs were every bit as good as Daddy’s!
You started to say they were better, but I assured you that was not necessary. The title of fried egg guru will remain your dad’s.