My son learned yesterday how to make fried eggs.
He made them for breakfast, standing over the stove, brow furrowed, spatula in hand, openly coaching himself through the cooking.
“Okay, okay, get ready to flip.”
“Don’t let it sizzle! Don’t let it sizzle!”
“Oh man, that was a good one. THAT was a GOOD one!”
He’d then toss a mangled yolk onto a plate, lovingly set it with a fork, then call out to anyone in the near vicinity, “Eggs ready!”
We’ve eaten eggs for breakfast, lunch, afternoon snack, dinner, and for breakfast today. The darling thing is so proud of this newfound skill, I find him (the kid that never wants to stop and eat!) checking his hunger every ten minutes, *just in case* he’s feeling ready for another egg making session.
Here at my house, food is life. The kids are constantly being set down to a table of freelance eats. Unique burgers, fancy fries, desserts no one has ever seen before. It’s easy to think bigger is better, more is more desirable. We, in our consumerism get caught up in newer, shinier, prepared by someone else.
But this morning, after five meals of the same thing…the exact same thing…prepared not to perfection, but with a helluva lot of love, I’m thinking how nice it is to dial things back sometimes. To just simmer in the simplicity of salt and pepper on a fried egg.
Lots of butter. Made by one really cool kid.